THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Acres  of  fl~',;,f>fa 
140  Vadis  Art. 


THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO 
AND    ADDED    ROMANCES 


MISS  1 


THE  BELLS  OF 
CAPISTRANO 


AND  OTHER  ROMANCES  OF  THE 
SPANISH    DAYS    IN    CALIFORNIA 


S.  H.  M.  BYERS 


Drawings  by  Langdon  Smith 


POTTER  BROTHERS  COMPAN7Y,  PUBLISHERS 

LOS  ANGELES,    CALIFORNIA 


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TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO 9 

GLORIETTA  ;  OR  THE  CITY  OF  FAIR  DREAMS 47 

LA   FAVORITA    69 

A  MADONNA  OF  THE  RANCH 83 

THE  FEAST  OF  THE  PINON  TREE 99 

AT  SAN  DIEGO • 123 

IN  ARCADIA  127 

THE  ROSE  OF  MONTEREY.  .  , 161 


BOOKS  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


The    Honeymoon    

With  Fire  and  Sword 

Collected  Poems   

A  Layman's  Life  of  Jesus, 
Twenty  Years  in   Europe. 


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LISRARf 


Junidero  Serra 

Junipero  Serra,  the  founder  and  first  President  of  the  Califor 
nia  Missions,  was  born  on  the  Island  of  Majarca  in  1713.  He 
became  a  noted  man  in  Spain  and  Mexico,  and  almost  every 
honor  of  the  Church  had  awaited  him  had  he  not  preferred  to 
renounce  everything  and  devote  his  great  zeal  and  talents  to 
the  Christianizing  of  the  California  Indians. 

His  establishment  and  conduct  of  the  famous  Missions  were 
the  stepping  stones  for  the  white  people  on  the  Pacific  Coast. 
Serra  died  in  1784,  and  his  body  rests  near  the  altar  of  San 
Carlos  Mission,  at  Monterey.  The  ruined  Missions  along  the 
Coast  are  his  monument. 


Foreword 

The  California  missions  were  established  by 
Spanish  Friars  in  the  middle  and  towards  the 
end  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Capistrano 
itself  was  dedicated  November  1,  1776.  It 
is  near  the  sea,  at  the  village  of  San  Juan 
Capistrano,  between  Los  Angeles  and  San 
Diego.  There  were  twenty-one  missions,  all 
told,  along  the  California  coast.  They  were 
connected  by  a  road  called  "El  Camino  Real," 
or  The  King's  Highway.  California  then  be 
longed  to  Spain.  It  was  the  most  romantic 
period  of  its  existence.  Most  of  the  missions 
are  in  ruins;  but  they  are  the  most  picturesque 
ruins  on  this  continent. 

Capistrano  mission  was  destroyed  by  an 
earthquake  December  8,  1812.  Forty  persons 
were  killed. 

The  descriptions  of  life  at  the  missions,  as 
told  in  these  poems,  are  from  authentic  sources. 


CAPISTRANO  MISSION 


The  Bells  of  Capistrano 

Wouldst  see  a  ruin  of  enchanting  beauty, 
And  hear  a  story  of  its  old-time  splendor, 
When  all  the  land  along  the  coast  was  Spanish, 
Save  the  wild  natives  bivouacked  in  the  forests? 
Then  turn  thy  steps  to  San  Juan  Capistrano, 
Go  there  by  moonlight,  almost  any  season, 
There  is  no  winter  in  that  golden  climate, 
Where  blooms  the  rose  in  April  or  December. 

There  by  the  waters  of  the  great  Pacific, 
Its  back  upon  the  mountains  and  the  desert, 
Stands  the  old  ruin,  silent  in  the  moonlight. 
Climb  to  some  eminence  and  look  about  you, 
Look  when  the  moon  is  highest  in  the  heavens, 
And  falls  full  on  the  mission's  great  quadrangle, 
Illuminating  all  the  dream-like,  slender  arches; 
Each  column  lights,  and  all  the  corridors; 
Or  fills  with  glory  yonder  falling  transept, 
And  thou  wilt  see  a  very  lovely  vision. 
The  nearby  hills  lie  sleeping  in  the  moonlight; 
Below  you  is  a  fair  and  fertile  valley, 
All  rich  in  lemon  trees,  and  groves  of  walnut; 
A  little  farther,  the  Pacific  Ocean; 
All  waveless  now,  but  glinting  in  the  moonlight 
As  if  a  glory  had  been  cast  upon  it. 
No  sound  is  heard  except  a  gentle  river— 
Or  else  a  mocking-bird  there  sweetly  singing. 

*     •*     * 

On  such  a  night  one  summer  evening,  sitting 
Beneath  that  pepper  tree  before  the  mission, 
I  and  the  old  Alcalde  talked  together. 
There  was  a  village  wedding  on  that  evening 


10  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Within  the  chapel  of  that  broken  ruin, 
And  when  it  all  was  done  the  bells  were  ringing; 
Two  merry  boys  down  on  the  grass  were  pulling 
The  long  bell  ropes  that  reached  up  to  the  tower. 
A  pretty  sight  it  was  there  in  the  moonlight, 
These  barefoot  boys  who  rang  the  wedding  marches, 
While  hills  and  valleys  echoed  back  the  music, 
The  bride,  a  dark-eyed  Spanish  girl,  and  pretty, 
Walked  out  on  roses  strewn  by  little  maidens, 
And  as  the  bells  died  off  far  up  the  valley 
Guitars  were  heard,  and  castanets,  and  viols 

Down  at  the  inn  where  they  would  dance  till  morning. 

*  *     * 

"It  all  reminds  me,"  said  the  old  Alcalde, 
uOf  that  old  tale  I  promised  once  to  tell  you. 
That  pretty  bride  you  saw — that  village  maiden, 
Could  trace  her  line  far  back  to  greater  people- 
Such  as  Francisco,  he  the  sweet  musician, 
And  fair  Dolores,  loveliest  of  the  valley, 

WThen  all  the  coast  was  famous  for  its  beauties." 

*  *     * 

Well,  here's  the  story  told  at  Capistrano, 
You  must  have  read  in  parchments  old  and  faded, 
How  on  a  time  a  Spanish  ruler,  hearing 
Of  this  bright  land  bv  the  Pacific  Ocean, 
Then  all  in  heathendom,  and  half  discovered, 
Sent  ships  and  priests  to  claim  the  blessed  country. 
Resides,  they  were  to  build  great  mission  houses 
Here  by  the  mountains  and  along  the  ocean— 
And  when  they  could,  convert  the  native  heathen. 
It  was  no  race  of  wild  and  fierce  born  warriors 
Lived  in  these  mountains  at  the  first  beginning, 
But  simple  people,  weak,  and  little  knowing. 

Well,  so  thev  came,  these  pious  priests  and  soldiers, 
Built  these  great  missions  northward  by  the  ocean; 


BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  11 

And  built  a  road — "The  King's  Highway"  they 
called  it, 

Two  hundred  leagues,  thus  linking  all  together. 

This  was  the  seventh ;  and,  you  know  the  story — 

How  friars  came,  brought  with  them  bells,  and  vest 
ments— 

As  was  their  habit  in  the  first  beginning— 

And  started  thus  a  mission  in  the  desert. 

First  hung  the  bells  on  trees  to  call  the  heathen, 

Then  built  rude  huts  of  reeds  and  spreading  bushes; 

Had  started,  only,  when  a  cry  of  danger 

From  other  missions  made  them  hurry  to  them. 

Then  leaving  all,  they  went  to  San  Diego. 

The  bells  they  left  behind  them  in  the  forest, 

Hid  from  the  Indians  and  unholy  people; 

For  they  were  sacred  most  as  gifts  from  heaven — 

Blessed  by  the  Pope,  and  by  the  friars  worshipped; 

A  great  white  cross  they  planted  in  the  valley, 

Then  left  the  place  their  pious  tears  had  watered. 

***##• 

A  year  went  by,  and  stranger  friars  followed. 

The  cross  still  stood  there,  beckoning  to  the  heathen, 

Its  great  white  arms  forever  skyward  stretching; 

For  very  fear  the  red  man  left  it  standing — 

Told  awful  tales  of  strange  things  happening  near  it, 

Of  groaning  hills,  and  smoke  up  in  the  mountains, 

And  fires  that  blazed  upon  them  at  the  midnight. 

The  bells  were  gone,  and  no  soul  answered  whither ; 
If  in  the  sand,  or  in  some  gloomy  canyon. 
Or  if,  perhaps,  deep  in  the  ocean's  bosom, 
For  he  was  dead  who  only  knew  the  secret. 
So  other  bells  were  borrowed  for  the  mission; 
And  once  again  the  cry  went  to  the  heathen. 
Who,  seeing  now  the  good  life  of  the  friars, 
Themselves  became  a  kinder  race  of  people; 


12  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Came  to  the  cross  by  thousands  at  the  mission; 
Joined  in  the  friars'  labor,  and  the  building; 
Learned  many  crafts,  and  helped  in  many  places; 
A  simple  folk,  that  did  the  friars'  bidding. 

Day  in,  day  out,  the  people  carried  burdens; 

With   simple   tools   they    worked,    and    delved,    and 

quarried; 

Made  tiles  of  clay,  and  cut  trees  in  the  forest; 
So,  laboring  on,  the  mission  was  completed. 
Then  other  friars  came  and  their  assistants, 
And  teachers  came,  across  the  farthest  ocean; 
And  every  craft  was  taught  to  men  and  women ; 
The  busy  loom,  and  shuttle,  sounded  ever; 
And  schools  began,  and  every  craft  and  calling — 
None  dared  be  idle,  neither  man  nor  woman; 
For  next  to  serving  God,  was  honest  labor. 

So  taught  the  priests,  and  gave  themselves  example; 

And  next  to  these  the  art  of  being  joyous; 

Indoors,  or  out,  the  busy  hands  kept  moving; 

The  loom,  and  spindles,  occupied  the  women, 

And  tilling  ground  gave  men  their  daily  labor; 

This,  and  the  vineyards,  and  the  herds  of  cattle; 

Toil  brought  them  sleep,  and  sleep  new-born  endeavor. 

The  rising  sun  saw  all  within  the  chapel; 

An  early  mass— a  little  song,  and  music, 

Some  simple  breakfast,  made  of  beans,  and  barley, 

And  then  the  fields  rejoiced  to  see  them  coming; 

A  noon-day  rest,  an  evening  rendered  joyous 

By  song,  and  dance,  and  games  for  men  and  women. 

Sometimes  a  flute  was  heard  out  in  the  garden; 

It  was  Francisco — he,  the  sweet  musician, 

The  mission  chorister  for  all  the  singers. 


BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  13 

Straight  from  Castile  he  came,  his  music  with  him. 

One  thought  he  had — some  day  to  be  a  friar— 

A  priest,  perhaps,  who  knows,  perhaps  a  cardinal; 

Such  things  had  been — and  might  it  not  still  happen? 

That  was  his  room,  there  by  the  right  hand  corner— 

The  second  door  beyond  the  mission  portal. 

It  was  inborn  in  him,  I  think,  this  music— 

But  much  from  nature,  too,  he  must  have  captured; 

Birds,  and  the  waterfalls,  and  every  gladness 

To  him  had  melodies  of  untold  sweetness; 

But  most  his  flute  afforded  joyous  rapture. 

Dark-eyed,  dark-haired,  and  very  young,  and  Spanish, 

And  handsome,  too,  almost  beyond  expressing; 

Fra  Angelo  a  face  like  his  had  painted— 

But,  giving  wings,  had  made  an  angel  of  him. 

Music  his  joy,  not  even  love  nor  passion 

Had  touched  his  heart,  or  changed  his  true  devotion. 

Not  love  he  knew,  nor  any  of  love's  pleasures— 

Not  love  he  knew,  nor  any  of  love's  sorrows. 

There  still  was  time.    Who  knows  to  read  his  future? 

He  loved  his  music,  day  and  night  and  morning; 

And  so,  at  last,  not  one  of  all  the  missions 

Could  boast  a  choir  like  that  of  Capistrano. 

Nor  anywhere  was  the  Te  Deum  chanted, 

The  high  mass  sung  in  such  a  glorious  fashion, 

As  when  Francisco  and  his  choir  of  singers 

Filled  all  the  mission  with  enchanting  music. 

The  very  hills  seemed  listening  and  in  gladness, 

As  if  they  heard  the  violins  and  viols, 

The  flutes  and  drums,  the  castanets  and  voices, 

But  most  of  all  the  voice  of  fair  Dolores. 

She,  from  far  Carmelo,  the  blessed  valley, 

Had  come  to  learn  of  him  the  sweet  musician. 

At  far  rancherias  they  knew  her  beauty, 


BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  15 

At  rich  estates  where  lived  the  exiled  Spanish; 
For  such  there  were  on  all  the  sea-line  border. 

Now  on  a  time  came  gay  Antonio  riding 

His  great  white  stallion  to  the  mission  service; 

His  silver  spurs,  and  jewelled  bridle  shining, 

His  great  sombrero,  decked  with  gold  and  ribbon, 

His  silken  vest,  and  trousers  made  of  velvet; 

Down  low  he  bowed,  and  crossed  himself,  and  entered. 

Dolores  saw  him,  thought  him  very  splendid— 

But  turned  a  little  seeing  he  was  looking 

Straight  at  her  face,  where  she  was  standing  singing, 

Ashamed  to  be  so  gazed  at  there  in  public, 

Yet  in  her  heart  a  little  proud  at  knowing 

It  was  her  beauty  kept  him  looking  at  her. 

For  where  was  woman  yet  that  needed  telling 

If  anyone  were  looking  at  her  beauty? 

And  she  was  beautiful,  and  good  as  beautiful, 

For  goodness,  too,  is  but  a  kind  of  beauty; 

Without  it  beauty  is  not  even  beautiful. 

Fair  face  she  had  and  hair  all  richly  golden, 

And  eyes  like  violets  in  the  early  May  time. 

And  this  was  he,  Antonio,  the  handsome, 
With  raven  hair,  and  eyes  black  as  the  midnight. 
A  hundred  times  had  she  not  heard  his  praises! 
The  finest  rider,  too,  in  all  the  valley; 
Possessed  of  lands  that  reached  clear  to  the  ocean; 
Exiled  from  Spain  when  Bonaparte  was  ruler, 
When  despots'  heels  were  on  his  country's  border. 
Once  on  a  time,  in  some  great  broil  or  other, 
He  took  a  fort,  and  won  the  young  king's  favor. 
Great  grants  received,  of  lands  in  California. 

Then  came  the  French,  and  drove  the  king  to  exile; 
Antonio,  too,  was  chased  across  the  ocean— 


16  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Where  now  he  lived  among  his  mountain  acres, 
Lord  of  great  fields  beyond  all  computation, 
Square  miles  of  valley,  reaching  north  and  southward, 
Square  miles  of  mesa,  chaparral  and  mountain, 
Where  roamed  his  droves  of  horses  and  of  cattle. 
Dolores  saw  him  when  he  was  not  looking, 
Saw  all  the  richness  of  his  velvet  costume, 
The  gold  and  silver  of  his  spurs  and  bridle, 
Saw  the  white  stallion  prancing  there  and  pawing, 
Best  blood  of  Monterey's  world-famous  horses; 
Saw  him,  Antonio,  the  handsome  rider— 
The  princely  bow  he  made  in  passing  by  her; 
Saw  all  and  wondered  what  fair  maid  would  win  him; 
And  as  he  rode  far  off,  and  up  the  valley, 
Still,  longing,  looked,  and  wondered  who  would  win 
him. 

Now  he  rode  off  and  onward  in  the  valley, 

Forever  thinking  of  the  mission  music, 

And  why  it  was  his  soul  was  so  ecstatic? 

Or  why  the  world  seemed  better  now  and  brighter? 

Men  had  been  smitten  in  a  single  moment, 

Such  sudden  ways  love  often  has  of  doing; 

And  so  Antonio,  though  he  did  not  know  it, 

Had  got  a  wound  almost  beyond  explaining. 

A  change  there  was,  but  words  cannot  express  it, 

Some  subtle  thing  awakened  other  feelings; 

The  wild  rose,  somehow,  had  another  meaning, 

And  if  a  bird  sang  from  some  bush  or  olive, 

His  mind  went  back  to  yonder  chapel's  music. 

Alone  he  was,  yet  one  sweet  face  was  with  him, 

As  't  were  a  spirit  in  the  air  beside  him; 

So  he  went  on,  and  upward  in  the  valley; 
Went  to  his  home  and  waited,  all  impatient, 
A  certain  festival  down  at  the  mission, 


BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  17 

When  all  the  people  came  to  games  and  races; 
Came  from  the  mission  down  at  San  Diego, 
From  San  Obispo,  and  a  dozen  others; 
She,  too,  would  come,  somehow  he  knew  and  waited. 

The  spring  had  come  with  all  its  birds  and  flowers, 
Such  spring  as. comes  to  that  fair  climate  only, 
With  almond  blooms  and  gold  acacia  blossoms, 
Bright  orange  groves,  and  walnut  trees  and  lemon, 
And  ocean  breezes  sweeping  up  the  valley, 
And  sunshine  lying  on  the  hills  forever, 
And  misty  mountains  leaning  up  to  heaven- 
Such  was  the  scene  that  made  life  there  delicious. 

Still  at  the  mission,  like  a  beehive's  humming, 
Each  soul  was  busy  with  its  love  and  labor; 
Some  in  the  shops  a  hundred  things  were  doing- 
Some  saying  prayers,  and  some  reciting  lessons, 
For  every  neophyte  must  work  or  study, 
Converted  souls  must  know  that  labor's  holy. 
The  idle  Indian  soon  became  a  helper- 
Learned  trades,  and  crafts,  as  well  as  prayers  and  masses, 
Still  watched  the  herds  upon  a  hundred  hillsides. 

***** 

In  an  enclosure,  like  an  eastern  harem, 
Or  old-time  nunnery,  well-kept  and  guarded, 
The  women  toiled  at  many  a  lighter  calling — 
With  busy  shuttle  and  the  needle  going, 
Clothed  all  the  people  Hving  at  the  mission- 
Made  stuffs  to  sell,  bright  Indian  robes,  and  blankets, 
Strange  baskets  wove,  of  bulrush  and  wild  grasses. 

•  .        •          4          4t          4 

The  girls  their  music  had,  as  well  as  labor, 
For  pleasure  there  was  hand-maid  still  of  toiling, 
And  all  knew  music,  flute,  or  voice,  or  viol, 
The  sweet  guitar  at  every  night  was  thrumming; 


18  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  often  times  Dolores  taught  them  Spanish, 
Or  thought  out  plans  for  this  thing,  or  for  that  thing, 
Helped  find  new  shapes  for  baskets  and  for  blankets, 
New  bead  work  taught  them  for  their  belts  and  sandals, 
And  pretty  ways  for  them  the  Indian  maidens; 
Or  stories  told  them  of  the  old-time  Spanish, 
And  other  tales  of  that  famed  city  northwards, 
Of  Monterey — and  how  the  people  lived  there- 
Soft,  luxury-loving,  as  the  lotus  eaters ; 
How  pearls  were  found  there  in  its  glorious  waters, 
Enriching  thousands  living  but  for  pleasure; 
Of  haciendas,  in  the  hills,  and  valleys, 
And  richer  lords  than  any  Spanish  nobles, 
Dressed  all  in  velvet,  and  with  rich  sombreros— 
And  one  she  thought  of,  while  she  yet  was  speaking. 
Told  of  the  jewels  worn  by  dark-eyed  women, 
Great  strings  of  pearls,  each  worth  a  prince's  ransom; 
Of  sudden  fortunes  made  in  mines  forgotten, 
Or  by  vast  herds  of  horses  and  of  cattle. 
How  some  from  Spain  had  brought  their  fortunes  with 

them, 

Brought,  too,  their  manners,  and  their  Spanish  customs, 
Till  all  the  coast  was  but  a  Spanish  province. 
Then  tales  she  told  of  Carmelo  the  holy, 
Her  own  fair  home  there  in  the  blessed  valley. 
Told  of  Junipero  the  Christian  leader, 
Who  built  the  missions  for  the  heathen  people; 

And  thus  she  won  the  hearts  of  all  the  maidens. 

***** 

Francisco  now  was  busier  than  ever, 
Preparing  all  things  for  the  great  fiesta; 
A  hundred  neophytes  in  chorus  training, 
Young  clever  souls  with  castanets  and  viols. 
And  dancing,  too,  that  was  almost  religion; 
Were  they  not  Spanish,  they,  and  all  the  people, 
Save  yonder  natives  on  the  hills  and  desert, 


20  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Was  this  not  Spain,  and  all  its  customs  Spanish? 
Would  they  not  come,  the  dark-eyed  Spanish  ladies, 
From  haciendas  by  the  sea  or  mountains, 
From  Monterey,  too,  and  the  farther  border! 

So  day  by  day  went  on  the  getting  ready. 

Dolores  helped  in  all  the  gladsome  labor, 

A  favored  one,  as  niece  of  him  the  Padre, 

Child  of  his  brother  in  Carmelo  valley. 

Her  duty  was,  beside  her  music  lessons, 

To  be  the  guardian  of  the  churches'  treasures — - 

The  silken  stoles,  the  chasubles  all  golden, 

The  altar  cloths,  with  silver  all  embroidered, 

The  silver  candlesticks  from  Spain  brought  over; 

To  gather  roses  for  the  mission  altar— 

"The  lady  sacristan,"  the  friars  called  her. 

A  pleasant  labor,  too,  was  now  Francisco's, 

With  fair  Dolores  in  the  work  assisting. 

Quick  thought  was  hers,  so  many  things  devising, 

Flags  and  festoons  from  arch  and  column  swinging, 

And  yellow  poppies  banked  on  cooling  waters. 

Strange  feelings  now  Francisco's  soul  were  moving, 
Strange  but  delightful,  and  beyond  expressing. 
No  thoughts  had  he  of  love  for  any  woman, 
For  he  was  pledged,  some  happy  day  or  other, 
To  be  a  priest  with  no  thought  but  of  serving. 
Yet  somehow  still  grew  pleasanter  the  labor, 
Somehow  he  lingered  in  Dolores'  presence, 
Not  knowing  why,  save  that  it  was  so  pleasant, 
Did  things  twice  over  that  he  might  be  near  her, 
Still  stayed  and  stayed,  nor  knew  why  he  was  staying. 

Perhaps  Dolores  could  herself  have  guessed  it, 
Girls  are  so  quick  at  knowing  things  so  subtle; 


BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  21 

Besides,  she,  too,  had  feelings,  more  than  tender, 
Although  Francisco  never  once  had  seen  it, 
So  hid  were  they  in  other  thoughts  and  fancies— 
Of  one  she  saw,  his  great  sombrero  waving, 
And  wondered  who  if  any  one  would  win  him, 
Not  knowing  then  that  she  herself  had  won  him. 

The  day  was  done,  the  Angelus  was  ringing, 
Francisco  heard,  and  led  the  chapel  music, 
Then  all  the  night  lay  thinking  of  Dolores. 
And  when  the  da\vn  another  day  was  bringing 
Across  the  hills,  and  downward  to  the  valley, 
Lighting  anew  the  olive  groves,  and  orchards, 
And  casting  gold  upon  the  waking  ocean, 
He  wandered  fieldwards  past  the  Indians'  cabins- 
Adobe  huts  with  roofs  of  reeds  and  grasses, 
Looked  at  the  river  from  the  canyons  leaping; 
Still  went  and  wandered  by  the  cliffs  of  ocean; 
Looked  at  the  ships  with  mission-cargoes  loading, 
Saw  pelts  of  oxen  by  the  thousands  loaded, 
Thrown  from  the  cliffs  down  to  the  waiting  sailors, 
Great  tons  of  wheat  and  barley  brought  for  shipment, 
And  casks  of  oil,  and  wine,  from  their  own  vineyards; 
Then  turned  his  steps  and  went  a  little  hillwards— 
Each  moment  thinking  of  the  fair  Dolores, 
Of  things  three  days  now  burning  in  his  bosom— 
Of  that  old  hope  some  day  to  be  a  friar; 
How  now  the  vow  was  somehow  slipping  from  him, 
As  slips  the  dew  in  sunshine  from  the  grasses; 
And  in  its  place  a  beauteous  face,  and  figure, 
Still  roamed  in  happiness  across  the  meadows- 
Saw  nothing  fair  that  did  not  mind  him  of  her, 
Thought  out  sweet  names  by  which  sometimes  to  call 

her, 

"The  poppy  girl,"  or  "Golden-haired  Dolores." 
Wild  roses  grew  beside  him  on  the  heather— 


22          THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

They  were  so  fair,  he  wondered  would  they  please  her- 
Then  plucking  many,  "This  will  deck  her  bosom, 
This  double  one  will  suit  her  hair  so  golden," 
Then  poppies  plucked,  the  great  wild  yellow  poppies, 
And  peach  tree  blossoms  clustered  with  the  others, 
And  many  more,  not  knowing  why  he  did  it. 
All  these  he  took  and  found  the  sweet  Dolores, 
And  almost  bashful  gave  to  her  the  poppies, 
The  roses,  too ;  she  took  them,  smiling  sweetly. 
"You  knew  my  fancy  for  the  yellow  poppies?" 
Demurely  said  she,  glancing  softly  at  him. 
"But  this  one's  yours,  Francisco — let  me  fix  it," 
And  reaching  towards  him  with  the  pretty  blossom, 
Her  eyes  now  shining,  looking  clearly  at  him, 
Her  lily  hand  just  touched  his  cheek  a  moment ; 
A  sudden  thrill  went  through  Francisco's  being — 
And  in  that  thrill  love  had  its  way,  as  ever; 
There  was  no  need  of  any  further  telling. 

That  day  the  festival  had  its  beginning, 

And,  when  Dolores  in  the  choir  was  singing, 

The  golden  poppies  lay  upon  her  bosom. 

The  mass  once  sung,  the  happy  people  gathered 

Around  the  mission  for  the  games,  and  dances, 

From  every  valley  and  the  far  rancherias 

They  came  by  hundreds  bringing  gifts,  and  prizes, 

So,  too,  the  Indians  from  the  inland  country, 

And  scattering  seed,  the  sign-word  of  their  friendship. 

Now  rang  the  bells,  the  signal  all  was  ready. 
First  came  the  races  of  the  Indian  maidens, 
Half-naked  women,  from  the  neighboring  desert, 
Against  the  girls  now  at  the  mission  living. 
Then  games  of  ball  the  desert  girls  excelling 
By  very  strength,  a  hundred  plaudits  winning. 


BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  23 

A  little  pause,  the  great  event  was  coming— 
Out  on  the  plaza,  seawards  from  the  mission, 
The  bear  and  bull  fight  was  about  commencing. 
Gifts  had  been  offered  by  the  mission  friars 
For  some  wild  beast,  the  fiercer  one,  the  better. 
And  many  days  the  mission  youths  had  hunted 
In  wood  and  canyon  till  at  last  they  found  him, 
A  wild  grey  monster,  savage  and  ferocious. 
All  unawares  they  sprang  on  him  with  lassoes, 
And  brought  him  growling  to  the  safe  enclosure. 
Around  the  square  the  excited  people  waited, 
Priests  in  their  robes,  and  dark-eyed  Spanish  women 
From  far  pueblos  and  old  Spanish  ranches. 
A  hundred  youths  in  festal  day  apparel, 
With  jingling  spurs,  and  jewel-mounted  saddles 
Sat  on  their  steeds,  encircling  all  the  plaza, 
Receiving  smiles  and  their  own  smiles  returning. 
There,  too,  Antonio  most  of  all  was  noticed, 
On  his  white  stallion,  gold  and  lace  apparelled, 
His  broad  sombrero  with  its  jeweled  ribbon, 
His  dark  eyes  glancing  when  he  saw  Dolores 
There  on  a  bench,  Francisco  sitting  near  her, 
And  golden  poppies  fastened  on  her  bosom, 
Ten  times  as  handsome  as  she  ever  had  been. 
He  spurred  his  stallion,  galloped  nearer  to  her, 
Waved  his  sombrero,  as  he  once  had  waved  it 
That  other  morning  when  she  saw  him  passing 
And  wondering  thought  who  is  the  maid  to  win  him — 
Not  knowing  still,  that  she  herself  would  win  him. 

A  moment  more  the  signal  bells  were  ringing; 
The  mission  portals  to  the  plaza  opened, 
There  was  a  cheer,  and  waving  fans  and  banners; 
The  great  black  bull  was  slowly  coming  forward- 
Back  in  the  patio,  decked  in  flowers  and  ribbons, 
He  had  been  waiting  for  the  sign  of  battle. 


24  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Amazed  he  looked  a  moment  at  the  people, 

Then  sudden  saw  the  monster  thing  before  him, 

A  grizzly  pile  of  hair,  and  claws,  and  clutches. 

The  bear  arose  and  on  his  hind  feet  standing, 

Reached  out  his  arms  as  if  to  do  him  honor, 

Blinked  his  small  eyes,  and  calmly  stood  and  waited. 

His  very  calmness  scared  the  bull  a  moment, 

Not  knowing  quite  if  he  should  run  or  battle; 

Then  shut  his  eyes,  and  bent  his  great  neck  downward, 

And  with  his  horns  lunged  at  the  thing  before  him— 

A  little  missed — the  bear  was  quickly  on  him, 

His  mighty  arms  around  his  neck  were  pressing, 

His  awful  teeth  deep  in  his  throat  imbedded— 

With  roar  of  pain  around  the  ring  he  started, 

Grim  as  grim  death,  the  bear  held  on  the  harder, 

Till,  by  sheer  dragging  once  his  hold  was  broken, 

And  bruin  rolled  a  little  distance  from  him. 

Again  the  bull  with  a  terrific  bellow 

Plunged  at  the  beast  with  his  red  eyes  distended; 

Again  the  bear  as  in  a  vise  has  caught  him, 

And  bear  and  bull  roll  in  the  dust  together. 

It  was  not  long,  for  bruin  all  exhausted, 

By  loss  of  blood  lay  still  a  little  moment, 

When,  with  a  roar  the  bull  in  pain  and  maddened, 

Rushed  on  his  prey,  and  goring,  left  him  dying. 

There  was  a  cheer,  a  thousand  people  rising, 

And  cheers  once  more,  and  all  the  bells  were  ringing. 

*       •*       *       *       * 

Now  changed  the  scene,  the  horse-race  is  beginning, 
A  league  of  road  straight  northward  from  the  mission- 
There  all  the  crowds  again  are  come  together. 
One  thought  alone  moves  everv  man  or  woman, 
One  idol  only  worshipped  in  the  province; 
Next  to  religion,  were  the  people's  horses. 
"Who  loves  his  horse  alone  can  love  a  woman- 
It  was  a  saying  in  the  Spanish  province. 


BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  25 

No  Arab  flying  on  the  wasted  desert 
Had  better  steeds,  or  better  knew  to  ride  them— 
Men's  lives  were  spent  so  wholly  in  the  saddle; 
Their  greatest  treasure  often  was  expended 
On  jewelled  trappings  for  the  horse  and  rider; 
And  he  was  rich  who  rode  his  jewelled  saddle, 
Though  he  were  homeless  else,  and  wholly  friendless. 
And  fleet  they  were,  these  California  horses, 
Fleet  as  the  wind  on  mountain  or  in  desert; 
And  all  one's  riches  oft  were  staked  upon  them. 
And  so  today,  one  saw  great  bags  of  silver 
On  carts  piled  up,  and  at  the  roadside  waiting, 
There  to  be  gambled  on  a  favorite  racer. 
An  hour  or  so,  and  fortunes  most  had  vanished— 
Lost  on  this  horse,  or  that  one,  in  the  racing. 
Then  came  the  last  the  piece  de  resistance— 
The  horses  running  without  any  rider. 
Ten  splendid  steeds  stood  stripped  there  for  the  starting, 
White  stallions,  known  as  swiftest  of  the  valley; 
Antonio's  horse  was  there  among  the  many; 
No  bridles  theirs,  nor  saddles,  nor  yet  riders- 
Just  bells,  and  spurs,  to  madden  them  to  running. 
***** 

The  signal  fires,  and  wildly  they  are  started, 
Not  knowing  where,  save  that  they  must  be  flying; 
Like  a  tornado  they  have  passed  the  people, 
Who  hold  their  breath  too  moved  for  any  cheering; 
One  league,  two  leagues — and  faster  fly  the  horses, 
Great  clouds  of  dust  the  races  most  obscuring— 
One  runner  now  is  leading  all  the  others- 
Just  by  one  neck,  Antonio's  horse  is  winning— 
And  with  a  bound  the  final  goal  he  crosses. 
A  shot  announces  that  the  race  is  over; 
A  thousand  throats  the  victor's  horse  are  cheering, 
And  he  is  led  among  the  crowds  of  people. 
He  walks  on  roses  scattered  now  before  him. 


BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  27 

As  comes  a  hero  from  the  battle's  thunder. 
Dolores,  too,  has  cast  a  flower  before  him; 
Antonio  sees  it  with  a  smile  of  gladness, 
Picks  up  the  rose,  and  kissing  throws  it  to  her, 
Then  leading  now,  the  splendid  steed  before  her, 
With  a  great  bow,  and  all  so  courteous  looking, 
Presents  the  stallion  to  the  fair  Dolores. 
uOh,  signorita,  look,  your  gladsome  beauty 
This  day  eclipses  every  beauty  present, 
The  horse  is  yours.    You  know  it  is  a  custom 
Who  wins  a  race  must  make  some  gift  or  other 
To  her  he  deems  most  fair  of  any  women. 
Adieu!  Adieu!"  he  waved  his  great  sombrero, 
And  left  Dolores  standing  there  and  blushing. 
Still  on  her  arm  the  silver  bridle  rested, 
A  little  while  she  stroked  the  horse's  shoulder, 
Then  saw  Antonio  passing  to  the  plaza— 
And  wondered  still  if  any  maid  would  win  him. 


*     * 


The  day  is  done,  the  Angelus  is  ringing, 

An  evening  prayer,  and  then  the  feast  and  dances. 

Francisco's  choir,  with  castanets  and  viols, 

His  many  singers  have  already  gathered 

Where  hang  the  lanterns  from  the  palms  and  peppers. 

The  wilder  Indians,  from  the  hills  and  canyons, 

Have  started  homeward,  going  up  the  valley, 

Save  two  or  three  now  hiding  in  the  bushes. 

Bright  is  the  scene  and  brighter  yet  the  dances; 

Gay  cavaliers,  and  wondrous  dark-eyed  women, 

And  brown-robed  priests,  and  olive-colored  maidens, 

Young  neophytes,  the  children  of  the  mission, 

And  soldiers,  guardsmen  of  the  mission  people, 

And  sailors  coming  from  the  ships  at  anchor. 

Some  danced  the  waltz,  and  some  the  gay  bolero, 

Still  others  in  the  wild  fandango  reveled. 

And  there  were  smiles  and  pressing  hands  and  whispers, 


28  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  praise  of  eyes  that  shone  in  soft  replying. 

Dolores,  radiant  as  the  scene  before  her, 

Danced  till  the  midnight  with  her  two  adorers, 

And  on  her  breast  the  golden  poppies  carried— 

Yet,  in  her  mind,  she  saw  a  gay  sombrero, 

And  heard  the  words  "most  beauteous  of  women." 

Francisco,  often  as  his  music  let  him— 

Beheld  her,  fairest  there  of  all  the  dancers; 

Beheld  the  poppies,  too,  and  rested  happy. 

But  'twas  Antonio  who  danced  so  often. 

And  kissed  her  hand  as  every  dance  was  finished, 

Looked  at  the  poppies  resting  on  her  bosom, 

Nor  guessed,  one  moment,  what  could  be  their  meaning. 

Once,  when  the  music  ceased  a  little  moment, 
Dolores  went  out  in  the  moonlight  walking, 
A  little  neophyte  her  sole  companion. 
Scarce  fifty  paces  from  the  dancers  going, 
They  heard  low  talking,  then  a  footstep  nearing— 
Three  painted  Indians  from  the  roses  springing, 
Quick  as  an  eagle  unexpected  pounces 
Upon  his  prey,  so  pounced  they  on  Dolores. 
There  was  a  cry,  the  neophyte  came  screaming— 
"Dolores  killed,  the  Indians  have  got  her." 

Loud  rang  the  bells,  "The  Indians  were  uprising," 

So  \vent  the  cry  alarming  all  the  valley. 

A  little  while  the  child,  her  senses  gaining, 

Told  how  she  knew  the  faces  of  the  villains. 

Of  her  own  tribe  they  were  up  in  the  mountains, 

There  were  but  three,  and  lived  alone  by  plunder. 

Before  the  dawn,  a  hundred  were  pursuing, 

On  foot,  on  horseback,  priests  and  friends  and  soldiers. 

All  day  they  hunted  in  the  woods  and  canyon. 

And  not  a  trace  of  either  man  or  woman, 

With  hope  most  gone  the  people  half  distracted 


BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  29 

Gave  up  the  hunt,  "Dolores  has  been  murdered." 
Francisco  bravely  kept  up  hope  and  sought  her. 
Footsore  and  weary  through  the  forest  went  he, 
By  paths  scarce  known  to  any  but  the  Indians, 
Nor  found  a  sign  of  where  she  might  be  hidden. 

Antonio,  too,  on  a  white  stallion  sought  her, 

Dashed  to  the  canyon  with  its  dark  recesses, 

Flew  to  the  edges  of  the  far-off  desert. 

Once  saw  some  trace  of  bandits  in  the  mountains, 

Rode  faster  yet,  determined  to  overtake  them, 

And  kill  them  ere  they  reached  their  secret  cavern. 

It  was  a  plan  if  anyone  should  find  her, 

Dead  or  alive,  the  mission  bells  should  tell  it. 

With  heavy  heart  Francisco  still  was  searching, 

Sad  and  alone  deep  in  the  hills  and  forest, 

When  all  at  once  the  bells  rang  in  the  valley. 

"Found!  Found!"  he  cried,  and   hastened   toward   the 

mission. 

An  Indian  boy  had  signaled  from  the  canyon, 
That  she  was  found  and  all  went  out  to  meet  her. 
Francisco,  too,  and  saw  Antonio  coming 
On  a  white  horse,  Dolores  on  before  him. 
A  mad'ning  thought  a  moment  overwhelmed  him, 
Yet  thanked  he  God  to  know  she  had  been  rescued. 

Two  days,  and  then  the  festival  renewing, 

All  sang  and  danced  in  fair  Dolores'  honor; 

A  little  pale  she  was,  yet  fairer  most  than  ever. 

Antonio  told  them  how  he  saved  Dolores— 

With  that  swift  horse,  he  caught  the  bandits  flying, 

And  fighting  slew  them  there  within  the  canyon, 

Just  as  they  reached  their  far  and  secret  cavern. 

It  was  most  morning  now,  and  yet  they  reveled, 
Or  wandered  singing  down  beside  the  river. 


30  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

There  by  its  bank  Antonio  and  Dolores 

Sat  down  and  talked  of  this  her  great  adventure. 

With  thankful  gratitude,  beyond  expressing, 

Dolores  prayed  all  blessings  should  come  to  him. 

Antonio  heard  and  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it, 

Told  of  his  love,  born  that  first  day  he  saw  her. 

Would  she  be  his,  heaven's  blessings  would  be  on  him. 

"You  have  been  kind,"  was  all  Dolores  answered, 

"While  life  shall  last  this  day  will  be  remembered." 

Then  there  was  silence,  and  a  quick  heart-beating— 

A  burning  struggle  in  Dolores1  bosom, 

She  dared  not  speak  the  thing  she  would  have  spoken ; 

And  when  again,  with  burning  words  he  urged  her, 

"Pray,  wait  a  little,"  was  her  only  answer— 

"I  will  go  home  to  Carmelo  tomorrow." 

There  I  will  weigh  it  all,  so  thought  she  silent, 

And  farther  gave  not  any  word  of  answer, 

But  slowly  walked  with  him  back  toward  the  plaza. 

The  stars  were  down,  the  dawn  was  almost  breaking; 

The  music  ceased,  and  yet  Antonio  pressed  her; 

Told  of  the  dangers  he  had  passed  to  save  her; 

Told  how  the  king  would  some  day  yet  restore  him 

His  Spanish  rights,  his  titles  and  his  castle; 

Told  how  some  day  they  two  would  walk  together 

Besides  a  lake  within  his  Spanish  garden. 

Dolores  heard,  but  gave  no  certain  answer, 

Her  thoughts  confused  with  all  the  past  day's  doings. 

Her  thoughts  of  that  bright  day  when  first  she  saw  him, 

Then  suddenly,  as  seeking  some  delaying— 

"Wait  just  a  little,"  smiling,  when  she  said  it, 

"Once  on  a  time,  beside  this  very  river, 

A  little  party  of  us  young  folks  gathered. 

And  I  had  suitors  pressing  for  an  answer. 

And  I  held  daisies,  counting  them  all  over, 

Each  petal  gave  some  pretty  little  answer, 


32  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Yet  leaving  doubt  if  either  of  them  loved  me. 

'He  loves  me,  loves  me  not,'  you've  seen  them  do  it. 

Well,  that  was  when  the  fine  new  church  was  founded, 

The  dear  old  bells,  long  lost,  were  now  so  wanted, 

The  Padre  said  no  other  bells  would  answer, 

These  ones  were  sacred,  for  the  Pope  had  blessed  them. 

So  all  the  valley  here  was  put  at  searching, 

For  many  days,  and  no  soul  ever  found  them, 

And  there  was  sorrow  here  in  all  the  valley. 

Then,  lovers  pressing  me,  I  made  a  promise; 

The  daisies  first  I  threw  into  the  river, 

Their  little  play  had  settled  nothing  for  me. 

'Whoever  finds  the  missing  bells,  and  brings  them 

To  yonder  tower  the  day  that  it  is  finished,' 

I  said  it  laughingly,  'him,  I  will  marry.' 

And  so  you  see  that  I  have  made  a  promise; 

I  am  fast  bounden  till  the  church  is  finished, 

But  if  the  bells  are  not  then  there  and  ringing, 

I  am  released,  and  am  no  longer  bounden. 

Wait  but  till  then,  and  you  shall  have  an  answer." 

Antonio  laughed,  "If  that  be  all,  Dolores, 

Then  never  day  will  come  that  you  are  married. 

The  bells,  men  say,  were  cast  into  the  ocean. 

But,  true,  or  no,  let  us  a  compact  enter; 

Give  me  one  word,  and,  if,  by  chance,  tomorrow, 

Or  any  time  before  the  church  is  finished, 

Some  happy  soul  should  find  the  missing  treasure, 

That  moment  I  release  you  from  the  promise." 

So  they  walked  on,  still  talking,  toward  the  mission. 

"Good  night,"  Dolores  said,  "or  rather  morning," 

And  did  not  know,  or  scarcely,  she  had  promised. 

They  stayed  good  friends,  Francisco  and  Dolores. 
"Fate  was  unfriendly  to  me  then  as  ever," 
So  said  he  wandering  on  the  flowering  meadows. 
"I  should  have  known  how  far  she  was  above  me, 


BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  33 

I,  a  musician  only,  he,  a  lordly  noble. 
I  should  have  kept  the  vow  to  some  day  enter 
The  holy  service  of  the  Lord  and  Master. 
But,  somehow,  love  all  resolution  conquers. 
I  was  but  human — loved  her  without  knowing— 
And  I  am  glad  I  never  told  her  of  it. 
She  never  knew  for  certain  that  I  loved  her; 
Nor  had  I  any  right  to  think  of  loving; 
Save  one  dear  glance  she  gave  me  on  that  morning 
She  placed  the  yellow  poppies  on  my  shoulder, 
What  right  had  I  to  think  she  ever  loved  me?" 
So,  m.any  days,  Francisco  tried  to  think  it — 
He  "had  no  right,"  and  so  would  overcome  it- 
Yet  went  on  loving  spite  of  pain  and  promise. 

That  very  day  Dolores  had  departed. 

By  chance,  a  ship  bound  northward,  stopped  a  little; 

To  Monterey  'twas  bound;  Carmelo  near  it, 

And  so  she  went  scarce  knowing  she  was  promised. 

***** 

Antonio  now  came  to  the  mission  often, 
Perhaps  the  memory  of  that  morning  drew  him, 
When  first  he  saw  Dolores  in  the  chapel! 
Its  patron  now,  and  many  gifts  he  brought  it, 
And  often  helping,  showed  the  mission  Indians 
New  ways  of  doing,  sent  skilled  people  to  them. 
So  hurried,  too,  the  great  church  they  were  building. 
It  had  been  years,  so  slow  the  work  proceeded— 
The  only  church  of  stone  in  all  the  province; 
And  stone  by  stone  the  whole  was  slowly  carried 
From  yonder  canyon  by  the  men  and  women. 
A  little  while  the  temple  would  be  finished, 
A  house  of  God  there  standing  by  the  mountains, 
A  house  of  God  that  looked  forever  seawards, 
The  bells  alone  they  were  not  yet  discovered. 


34          THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Once  more  they  hunted  for  them  northward,  southward, 

So  zealous  all,  Antonio  most  was  fearing 

They  might  yet  find  them,  somewhere,  always  thinking 

Of  that  strange  promise  made  by  fair  Dolores; 

And  also  thinking  what  himself  had  promised, 

And  so  he  hurried  every  day  the  building. 

They  were  good  friends,  Antonio  and  Francisco, 

And  oftentimes  Francisco  heard  him  praising 

Dolores'  beauty,  and  her  thousand  virtues, 

Nor  let  him  know  how  his  own  heart  was  beating; 

Nor  guessed  Antonio  once  a  thought  of  danger. 

The  time  was  near,  the  church  was  most  completed ; 

Antonio's  perfect  rapture  was  approaching, 

She  would  be  there — be  at  the  dedication, 

Her  voice  would  add  to  all  the  festive  pleasure; 

And  then  the  day,  the  one  day  of  all  others, 

Was  it  not  coming  with  delight  and  music! 

Then  came  the  word  no  ship  would  soon  be  sailing 
From  Monterey  toward  Capistrano  mission, 
Not  for  a  month  would  any  ship  sail  southwards. 
Dismayed,  the  friars  talked  with  one  another, 
She  must  be  here,  our  fairest,  greatest  singer, 
The  Padre,  too,  the  head  priest  of  the  mission, 
Would  see  his  niece  at  this  the  great  occasion, 
And  said,  "Francisco,  you  I  trust  to  bring  her, 
And  some  companion  she  may  choose  beside  her." 
Then  came  Antonio,  too,  and  urged  Francisco, 
"Are  we  not  friends — go  you  and  bring  Dolores." 
But  did  not  dream  they  ever  had  been  lovers. 
"Ride  to  Carmelo,  on  the  king's  great  highway, 

Tomorrow  take  the  fleetest  of  my  horses." 

***** 

Astounded  was  he,  yet  he  could  not  show  it— 

A  thousand  thoughts  went  through  Francisco's  bosom — 

He  made  excuse — "he  was  at  home  much  needed ; 


BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  35 

There  were  rehearsals  of  the  music  waiting." 

Said  this,  said  that,  Antonio  but  insisted. 

And  so  he  went  along  the  king's  great  highway, 

Along  the  seaside  and  beside  the  mountains, 

The  sea  no  more  perturbed  than  were  his  feelings. 

One  afternoon,  among  the  roses  walking, 

Up  at  Carmelo,  where  the  sea  was  shining, 

Dolores  saw  him  coming  in  the  garden; 

And,  so  surprised,  she  wondered  at  his  coming, 

A  little  while  they  wandered  through  the  garden, 

Glad  of  this  chance  to  look  upon  each  other, 

Yet  neither  speaking  of  the  thing  the  nearest. 

For  both  were  bounden,  she  who'd  made  her  promise — 

And  he  whom  trust  had  sent  upon  this  errand. 

Once  they  climbed  up  a  hillside  from  the  valley, 

There  saw  the  ocean  glistening  bright  before  them. 

Saw  aisles  of  pine  and  heard  their  low-toned  music, 

Saw  gentle  hills  with  every  blossom  glowing, 

A  babbling  river  dancing  to  the  ocean. 

There  lay  Carmelo,  heaven's  own  hand  had  touched  it, 

And  made  it  beautiful  above  all  others. 

Its  sun-kissed  gardens  and  its  snow-white  lilies, 

Its  clustering  roses  and  its  field  of  poppies, 

Made  all  the  air  a  something  so  delicious 

That  every  lover  loved  Carmelo  valley. 

Great  memories,  too,  around  the  place  were  clinging, 

There  Junipero  lived — the  good,  the  holy— 

The  master  hand,  the  soul  of  all  the  missions, 

He  who  had  brought  salvation  to  the  heathen. 

Beneath  a  slab  there  in  San  Carlos  mission, 

Hid  all  in  roses,  he  is  softly  sleeping, 

Whose  name  in  tender  hearts  will  burn  forever. 

Three  days  in  joy  the  happy  lovers  lingered, 

For  they  were  lovers,  spite  of  bounden  duty. 


BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  37 

Each  loved  in  silence  though  he  dare  not  tell  it, 

Nor  break  a  vow,  for  both  of  them  were  bounden. 

***** 

"Tomorrow  we  shall  ride,"  Francisco  said  it— 

"Down  El  Camino,  there,  the  beauteous  highway. 

Down  the  long  way  past  sea  and  hill  and  mission, 

To  Capistrano.    He  will  there  be  waiting." 

Dolores. smiled  a  little — then  a  shadow 

Fell  on  her  face  and  hid  what  she  was  feeling. 

And  so  they  rode  onwards  on  the  highway, 

Along  the  seashore,  listening  to  its  music, 

She  on  the  great  white  horse  Antonio  gave  her, 

Francisco  riding  on  a  coal  black  stallion, 

With  gorgeous  saddles  both,  and  jeweled  bridles; 

Had  she  been  queen  she  had  not  then  been  greater. 

Antonio's  name  was  known  at  every  mission. 

Dolores,  too,  fair  golden-haired  Dolores; 

Not  less  Francisco,  he  the  famed  musician. 

A  hundred  leagues,  not  less,  the  happy  journey. 

So  they  rode  on,  at  every  mission  waiting, 

(For  all  men  knew  Antonio's  bride  was  coming), 

A  troop  of  girls,  young  neophytes,  would  meet  them, 

Pelt  them  with  roses,  scatter  palms  before  them, 

Sing  joyous  songs  and  lead  them  to  the  mission; 

There  feast  and  toast  and  Castanet  and  viol, 

Brought  to  a  close  each  day  of  sweetest  travel. 

Sometimes  they  met  a  barefoot  pilgrim  friar 

Making  his  way  to  Carmelo,  or  farther, 

Who  made  the  cross,  and  blessed  them,  ever  saying, 

"May  God  be  with  you  as  you  fare  together." 

Four  happy  days  like  bees  on  roses  sipping, 

The  lovers  traveled  by  the  sweet  sea's  border, 

Yet  not  of  love  had  either  one  yet  spoken, 

For  each  one  knew  he  to  a  vow  was  bounden. 

But  once  at  noon  they  passed  a  field  of  poppies 

All  golden  glinting,  by  the  seaside  growing; 


38  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Francisco  saw  them,  leaped  from  off  his  stallion 
And  brought  a  nosegay  to  the  happy  maiden. 
"My  fancy  yet,  and  you  have  not  forgotten," 
She  smiling  said,  and  placed  them  on  her  bosom. 
Yet  was  it  true,  a  thought  was  ever  with  her 
That  heavier  grew  as  now  the  journey  ended; 
Spite  of  the  joy  the  golden  days  had  brought  her, 
The  very  poppies  made  it  all  the  harder; 
And  all  the  time  there  riding  by  Francisco, 
She  thought  in  silence  of  a  half-made  promise; 
Thought  of  that  night  there  by  the  little  river, 
Antonio's  pleading — and  her  half-made  promise; 
How  he  had  saved  her  from  an  unknown  terror; 
Then  saw  Francisco  riding  there  beside  her, 
Felt  something  tearing  every  heartstring  from  her, 
Love,  and  that  promise,  struggling  with  each  other. 
So  they  rode  on — and  still  no  word  was  spoken. 
***** 

Francisco,  too,  now  as  the  day  was  closing, 
Felt  as  awakened  from  a  pleasant  vision— 
A  moment's  joy,  and  then  the  dream  departing 
Left  only  shadow  as  the  journey  ended. 
He  had  lacked  courage;  up  there  at  Carmelo 
He  should  have  spoken — ventured  all  to  have  her; 
The  trust  he  held,  was  it  not  forced  upon  him? 
It  was  too  late;  he  saw,  as  in  a  vision, 
A  marriage  feast,  Antonio  and  Dolores 
Walk  down  an  aisle  with  orange  blossoms  fragrant. 
***** 

So  they  rode  on  and  yet  no  word  was  spoken. 
A  little  while,  and  now  the  sun  was  setting, 
Drowning  itself  in  the  Pacific  Ocean, 
With  such  a  trail  of  glory  left  behind  it 
As  only  comes  to  sunsets  in  that  region. 


BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  ^ 

It  was  clear  moonlight  now  at  Capistrano 
When  these  two  lovers  stopped  before  the  mission. 
Antonio  welcomed  them,  he  had  been  waiting, 
And  helped  Dolores  from  her  silken  saddle, 
And  helping  saw  the  golden  yellow  poppies, 
Few  words  were  said,  Antonio,  without  telling, 
Knew  from  that  moment  that  he  had  a  rival. 

Francisco  took  the  horses  toward  the  river, 

To  give  them  water  where  the  stream  was  clearest, 

For  now  it  was  receded  almost  wholly 

From  a  great  drouth  that  fell  upon  the  valley. 

And  while  the  horses  stood  there  in  the  water, 

Or  in  the  sand  where  he  himself  was  standing, 

Their  hoofs  struck  on  some  iron  thing  or  other. 

With  both  his  hands  Francisco  delved  a  little 

Down  in  the  sand,  when  lo!  there,  deep  imbedded, 

He  found  the  bells  of  Capistrano  mission! 

'Twas  like  a  dream  or  some  sweet  thing  from  heaven. 

A  thousand  joys,  all  in  one  joy  together; 

Now  he  could  speak — was  it  not  her  own  promise 

Who  found  the  bells — her  hand  should  have  forever? 

And  in  her  eyes  had  he  not  sometimes  read  it— 

The  hope  that  he  might  find  the  hidden  treasure? 

That  she  had  loved  and  never  dared  to  tell  it? 

***** 

Then  in  the  moonlight  friars  came  and  labored 

With  all  the  mission  glad  almost  to  crying— 

So  thankful  \vere  they  for  the  thing  that  happened. 

That  very  night,  through  all  the  little  valley, 

The  news  was  spread  like  prairie  fires  in  autumn, 

And  eager  hands  in  long  procession  forming, 

Now  bore  the  bells  in  gladness  to  the  mission. 

High  mass  was  sung  at  davbreak  of  the  morning, 

"Regina  Salve,"  'twas  Dolores  singing. 

Antonio  heard  her,  as  he  did  that  morning 


40  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

When  first  he  saw  her  at  the  mission  chapel— 

The  day  he  waved  his  great  sombrero  to  her. 

The  service  out,  the  two  went  to  the  river; 

To  that  same  spot  where  in  the  moonlight  walking 

She  once  had  promised  without  scarcely  knowing. 

Antonio  spoke,  "Bright  honor's  left,  Dolores, 

Here  is  the  spot,  our  trysting  place  last  summer. 

The  promise,  half-enforced,  you  scarcely  granted, 

I  saw  tonight  was  thankfulness,  not  passion ; 

I  was  love-blind,  too  strong  my  great  devotion. 

We  both  have  vowed,  nor  shall  my  vow  be  broken ; 

The  bells  are  found,  you  are  no  longer  bounden. 

Take  one  you  love,  there,  I  release  you  wholly; 

Nor  you  nor  I  are  any  longer  bounden." 

He  strode  his  horse  and  rode  far  up  the  valley. 

And  no  one  knew  Antonio's  heart  was  broken. 

Dolores  lingered,  saw  him  disappearing, 

With  moistened  eyes  turned  slowly  toward  the  mission. 

And  that  great  weight  was  slowly  lifted  from  her. 

That  day,  almost,  Francisco  and  Dolores 

Walked  o'er  the  hills  and  pretty  vales  together. 

Then  said  Francisco,  "Long,  so  long,  I've  waited. 

May  I  not  speak  now,  that  you  are  not  bounden? 

There  at  Carmelo  once  I  almost  ventured, 

And  then  I  thought,  the  trust  I  had  was  holy, 

Antonio  trusted  me,  I  dared  not  say  it; 

And  when  I  gave  the  poppies  to  you,  also, 

I  was  most  minded  then  to  tell  you  frankly. 

Again  I  thought,  some  other  one  might  love  you, 

Might  find  the  bells,  and  you  would  keep  your  promise. 

Now  I  speak  out;  I  love  you,  dear  Dolores. 

The  bells  are  here  and  I  would  hear  them  ringing 

On  that  dear  day  when  we  two  shall  be  wedded." 


BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  41 

And  so  the  bells  were  kept  a  little,  silent; 
Although  the  church  was  finished  now,  and  waiting, 
Till  on  a  day  these  lovers  twain  were  married. 
Then  all  at  once  the  bells  rang  out  their  music, 
And  all  the  valley  joined  in  song  and  dancing. 

Without  a  change  weeks  passed  there  at  the  mission, 
The  old  routine  of  labor  and  religion; 
Save  that  the  mission  now  was  growing  richer; 
Great  herds  of  cattle  grazed  upon  the  mountains, 
And  flocks  of  sheep  that  never  could  be  numbered, 
And  crowds  of  Indians  came  and  were  converted. 
Then  came  that  day  that  made  this  place  a  ruin- 
When  all  the  coast  of  the  Pacific  Ocean 
For  one  short,  awful  moment,  rocked  and  trembled, 
And  all  the  missions  shook  to  their  foundation. 
But  this  one  most,  felt  yonder  earthquake's  coming, 
The  twilight  mass  of  a  December  morning 
Was  being  sung  there  in  the  finished  temple, 
When  all  at  once,  the  church  dome  reeled  a  little, 
The  roof  spread  open,  showed  the  sky  above  it, 
Then  with  a  crash  the  whole  fell  down  together. 

For  many  days  the  buried  ones  were  sought  for; 
Some  said,  Antonio,  too,  was  buried  with  them, 
But  none  were  certain,  in  the  dread  confusion. 
The  hunt  for  lost  ones  was  at  last  abandoned; 
The  little  graveyard  there,  behind  the  mission, 
Already  full;  but  on  a  day  when  the  great  mass  was 

singing 

For  souls  of  all  who  had  so  sadly  perished, 
A  ship  came  by,  its  captain  had  a  letter- 
Dolores'  name  was  quickly  seen  upon  it; 
'Twas  from  Antonio,  written  ere  the  earthquake 
Had  cast  the  mission  in  a  sea  of  sorrow. 
"Once  sudden  news,"  so  ran  it,  "took  him  northwards, 


42 


THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRAXO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Nor  gave  him  time  for  any  farewell  message. 

And  now  he  wrote  to  say  he  was  not  angry; 

She  had  done  well  to  marry  where  her  heart  was, 

And  now  he  knew  'twas  gratitude,  not  passion 

That  made  her  promise  to  be  bounden  to  him." 

So  went  the  letter,  telling  news  from  Spainwards, 

"He  had  been  given  back  his  castles,  titles, 

So  had  no  use  for  lands  so  very  distant; 

His  valley  rancho,  reaching  west,  and  seaward, 

She  must  accept  it  as  her  wedding  present; 

And  so  they  would  be  friends  forever  after." 


GLORIETTA;  Or  the  CITY  OF  FAIR  DREAMS 


NOTE: 

There  was  a  time  when  beautiful  Monterey  by  the 
Sea  was  the  capital  of  California.  The  people  there,  as 
all  along  the  Pacific  Coast,  were  mostly  Spanish — with 
Spanish  customs,  dress,  and  manners.  The  old  Mission 
houses  were  still  in  their  glory,  and  Monterey,  then  the 
gem  of  the  Pacific,  was  a  very  gay  and  luxurious  little 
capital.  It  was  not  surpassed  for  beauty  anywhere  on 
the  Pacific. 


Glorietta; — or  the  City  of  Fair  Dreams 

Oh,  many,  many  years  ago  this  tale 

Had  its  beginning  by  a  charmed  sea, 
So  beautiful  it  seemed;  the  bending  sail, 

And  the  blue  sky,  like  that  of  Italy. 
There  grew  the  palm  and  there  the  lemon  tree, 

And  every  flower  that's  beautiful  to  see. 

Outside  the  bay  the  mighty  ocean  rolled 
In  liquid  mountains,  or  in  glist'ning  sea, 

And  moonlight  nights  some  wondrous  story  told 
To  listening  forests  and  to  meadowed  lea; 

And  lovers,  walking  in  the  moonlight,  heard 

Their  sweethearts'  voices  when  the  sea  was  stirred. 

Such  was  the  scene,  where  the  fair  city  stood, 
By  poets  called  "The  City  of  Fair  Dreams," 

Between  the  forest  and  the  shining  flood; 
And  even  now,  to  strangers'  eyes  there  seems 

Some  lingering  glory  of  that  happy  day 
When  all  was  merry  in  old  Monterey. 

'Twas  at  a  time  when  Spanish  friars  bore 
For  many  years  their  long  and  kindly  sway 

In  grand  old  Missions  stretched  along  the  shore 
From  San  Diego  to  Francisco  Bay. 

Then  all  was  Spanish — manners,  speech  and  dress- 
Save  the  wild  Indians  in  the  wilderness. 

'Twas  just  as  if  some  island  in  the  past 
Had  drifted  off  from  its  beloved  Spain, 

And  by  some  wondrous  miracle  been  cast 
Along  the  shores  of  the  Pacific  main: 

Or  was't  Arcadia  that  had  been  lost, 

And  by  some  chance  had  hitherward  been  tossed? 


48  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Be  it  as  it  may,  it  was  a  lovely  land, 

And  joyous  people  lived  along  its  coast; 

There  dance  and  music  wandered  hand  in  hand. 
And,  next  to  these,  their  horses  were  their  boast, 

No  Arab  tenting  in  the  desert  airs 

Had  steeds  so  swift,  so  beautiful  as  theirs. 

He  was  not  poor  who  had  his  desert  steed, 
With  silver  spangles  hung  on  neck  and  breast, 

Bejeweled  saddle,  beautiful,  indeed, 

And  wondrous  spurs  outshining  all  the  rest. 

It  was  a  sight  sometimes  to  look  upon, 

These  New-world  knights  and  their  caparison. 

Famed  \vas  the  land  for  other  things  as  well, 
Famed  for  fair  women,  beauteous  to  behold, 

With  great  black  eyes,  and  olive  skins  to  tell 
Castilian  blood;  and  forms  of  fairest  mold. 

Of  one  of  these,  had  I  a  harp  to  sing, 
I'd  tell  a  tale  not  all  imagining. 

For  there  was  one,  a  child  almost  in  years, 
Some  sixteen  summers  only  had  been  hers, 

But  in  that  clime  of  rose-leaf  and  of  tears, 
Love  wakens  early  and  its  passion  stirs. 

So,  Glorietta,  soft  as  any  dove, 

Just  laughed  and  loved,  yet  never  thought  of  love. 

Till  on  a  day  when  Ivan  came  to  woo, 
A  fisher's  lad,  he  was,  down  by  the  bay, 

Who  dived  for  pearls  of  many  a  heavenly  hue 
That  in  the  bottom  of  the  ocean  lay; 

And  here  and  there  a  pretty  shell  he  took 
To  Glorietta  with  a  lover's  look. 


GLORIETTA  49 

Though  well  she  prized  these  pretty  courtesies, 
There  was  a  gulf  that  stretched  betwixt  the  two, 

A  stream  unbridged,  and  bridgeless,  most,  as  seas, 
Without  a  road  that  any  lover  knew. 

For  what  was  he?    A  common  fisher's  son, 
And  she,  the  heiress  of  a  Spanish  don. 

O!  she  was  young,  and  beautiful  of  face, 

With  melting  eyes,  a  joy  to  look  upon, 
Big,  black  and  deep,  like  her  Castilian  race; 

Who  looked  too  long  was  sure  to  be  undone. 
That  Ivan  learned,  although  he  was  so  young, 

Yet  loved,  the  sting  with  which  he  had  been  stung. 

Her  hair — such  hair — in  two  great  braids  fell  down 
Like  twisted  ropes,  black  as  the  ebon  night. 

Upon  her  beautiful  but  girlish  gown 

Of  simple  rose,  bedecked  with  lilies  white. 

Hearts  had  been  cold,  or  ice,  or  something  worse, 
Not  to  be  moved  by  eyes  and  hair  like  hers. 

She  was  akin  to  the  Don  Carlos  line; 

Though  orphaned  young  she  might  have  riches  still, 
For  the  Alcalde,  now  Count  Valentine, 

Had  many  lands  and  herds  on  every  hill. 
He  was  her  guardian,  and  could  well  endow 

Such  rose  of  beauty  as  he  saw  her  now. 

Upon  the  hill  where  his  gray  palace  stood 
Fair  flowers  grew  of  every  hue  and  kind; 

The  bougainvillea,  with  its  purpling  flood, 
In  drifted  banks  the  walls  and  porches  lined. 

But  Glorietta,  far  beyond  compare, 
Was  fairest  yet  of  any  flower  there. 


50  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  when  the  harvest  of  the  vine  was  on 
In  the  sweet  autumns  of  that  blessed  clime, 

When  summer's  heats  and  summer's  suns  were  gone 
And  frosts  just  touched  the  orange  and  the  lime, 

Then  manly  youths  were  to  the  labor  pressed, 
And  Ivan,  too,  was  there  among  the  rest. 

So  it  fell  out,  as  in  that  long  ago, 

When  Ruth  and  Boaz  in  the  harvest  met, 

Love  had  its  way,  or  Ivan  wished  it  so, 
And  cast  himself  in  Glorietta's  net, 

Just  at  the  moment  when  she  brought  the  wine 
Sent  to  the  gard'ners  by  Count  Valentine. 

'Twas  like  a  dream,  the  sudden  joy,  to  him! 

Not  many  grapes  he  gathered  on  that  day, 
Nor  on  the  next,  for  other  things  now  drew 

His  one  attention  in  another  way, 
And  oftener  now  did  Glorietta  bear 

Her  jugs  of  wine  out  to  the  gard'ners  there. 

And  once,  unconsciously,  the  jug  she  held 
To  Ivan's  lips,  that  he  might  drink  his  fill, 

As  if  by  accident  his  face  she  touched, 

And  quick  he  felt  it,  the  immortal  thrill, — 

Such  thrill  as  comes  but  once  to  any  soul, 
Or  rich  or  poor,  it  is  love's  sweetest  toll. 

So  days  went  on,  the  vintage  was  not  done, 
And  every  day  young  Ivan  there  would  be 

To  gather  grapes  in  the  sweet  autumn  sun, 
Or  pick  the  lemons  from  the  lemon  tree; 

But  most  to  see  his  sweetheart,  and  adore, 
And  every  day  she  welcomed  him  the  more. 


52  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

There  was  an  arbor  on  the  palace  ground, 
Hid  all  in  roses  of  sweet  loveliness, 

Where  all  was  silence  save  the  gentle  sound 
Of  little  brooklets  and  the  wind's  caress. 

There  Glorietta  at  the  noontide  came: 

Who  wonders  now  that  Ivan  did  the  same! 

So  in  sweet  converse  flew  the  blessed  noon, 
While  they  sat  looking  in  each  other's  eyes, 

Amazed  an  hour  could  pass  away  so  soon. 
But  time  to  lovers  very  quickly  flies; 

Not  much  their  feast  on  either  bread  or  wine, 
On  other  things,  'tis  said,  do  lovers  dine. 

Yes,  talk  they  had,  and  maybe,  kisses,  some. 

For  they  were  glad  of  life  and  everything: 
Youth  must  be  so — delicious  it  can  come, 

And  this  was  now  the  flower  of  their  spring. 
Give  love  a  bower,  in  vines  and  roses  drest, 

And  melting  eyes,  and  love  will  do  the  rest. 

There,  in  their  moments  of  felicity, 

Young  Ivan  told  her  of  a  thousand  things; 

Of  the  pearl-divers  and  the  sapphire  sea, 
And  the  great  fishes  that  had  shining  wings ; 

Of  caverns  told,  and  rocks  that  overhung 

The  ocean  caves  where  the  pearl-fishes  clung. 

How  he  himself  the  dangers  underwent 
Of  diving  down,  his  trusty  knife  in  hand, 

To  cut  them  loose  from  walls  and  caverns  rent, 
Then  sudden  rise  and  cast  them  on  the  sand: 

No  rainbow  hues  more  glorious  could  be 
Than  these,  the  children  of  the  azure  sea. 


GLORIETTA  53 

How  he  had  seen  a  grotto  wonderful 

Down  in  the  ocean  with  the  waves  above, 

Not  e'en  the  shrieking  of  the  sad  sea-gull 
Was  ever  heard  in  this  enchanted  cove. 

Like  Desdemona,  Glorietta  heard, 

And  breathed  a  sigh  at  every  other  word. 

How,  fearing  not,  again  and  yet  again, 

He  dared  the  dangers  that  around  him  were, 

Not  in  some  hope  of  some  poor  little  gain, 
But  for  a  pearl  that  was  most  worthy  her; 

And  then  he  reached  to  give  it,  with  a  kiss — 
But  hark!  a  step,  and  ended  all  their  bliss! 

It  was  the  Count,  his  face  in  purple  rage. 

Some  evil  soul  had  whispered  in  his  ear, 
How  every  day  these  lovers  did  engage 

In  guilty  amours,  and  he'd  find  them  here. 
Few  words  were  said,  there  was  not  much  to  say; 

The  place,  the  kiss,  were  they  not  plain  as  day? 

He  railed  a  little,  Glorietta  heard: 

"I  had  no  one  to  guide,  and  I  was  young," 

Her  eyes  were  weeping,  but  no  other  word; 
The  Count,  he  better  too  had  held  his  tongue! 

He  was  himself  not  over  good,  they  say, 
Among  th'  elite  of  lovely  Monterey. 

Be  as  it  may,  he  had  his  Spanish  pride; 

No  kin  of  his  might  ever  think  to  wed 
With  lowly  fisher-folk,  or  be  the  bride 

Of  one  who  labored  for  his  daily  bread. 
That  very  day  he  made  his  plans  to  send 

Young  Glorietta  to  a  distant  friend. 


54  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

He  had  a  cousin,  rich  and  proud  and  lone, 

Who  with  a  sister  by  the  desert  dwelt; 
What  took  him  there  had  never  quite  been  known, 

If  fate  or  love  with  him  had  coldly  dealt. 
Don  Eldorado  was  the  cousin's  name, 

A  bit  romantic  and  once  known  to  fame. 

"There  Glorietta  will  be  safe  awhile," 

Thought  the  Alcalde,  when  she  reached  the  place, 
And  thinking  so,  a  long  and  happy  smile 

At  times  illumined  the  Alcalde's  face. 
"Time  conquers  love,  at  least  so  I  have  read, 

And  Ivan  well  may  think  her  lost  or  dead." 

For  it  was  planned  that  never  any  word 

Should  pass  between  them  now  forever  more. 
Just  how  'twas  done  no  mortal  ever  heard, 

But  things  like  these  were  often  done  before- 
Some  false  arrest,  some  prison  far  away, 

Or,  at  the  worst,  there  still  would  be  the  bay, 

A  little  while,  though  broke  of  heart  at  first, 
And  Glorietta  almost  loved  the  scene— 

When  on  her  eyes  the  great  wild  desert*  burst 
Like  two  vast  seas,  with  mountains  in  between. 

The  porphyry  hills,  the  red  sea-walls  that  rise, 
Seemed  fit  for  gates  to  some  sweet  paradise. 

'Twas  in  the  morning,  and  God's  great  blue  tent 
Spread  over  mountains  and  the  desert  land; 

A  sapphire  glory  every  moment  lent 
Some  lovelier  color  to  the  desert  sand; 

A  little  while,  and  then  the  mountains  seem 
A  mystic  phantom,  a  forgotten  dream. 

NOTE — The  Mojave  and  the  Colorado  deserts  are  really  the  same  thing.     A   chain 
of  the  Sierra  Madre  mountains  cuts  the  vast  plain  in  two  parts. 


GLORIETTA  55 

Once,  on  a  height,  alone,  she  stood  and  gazed 
On  violet  mountains  and  the  desert  sea. 

A  sudden  sun  above  the  desert  blazed,— 

UO  World!"  she  cried,  "thou  wert  all  joy  to  me 

Were  this  to  last,  with  never  any  tear,   , 
And  Ivan  standing  close  beside  me  here." 

Now,  Eldorado,  though  not  very  young, 

Kept  in  his  breast  some  fires  not  yet  gone  out, 

Saw  Glorietta,  and  that  moment  flung 
Himself  before  her,  dead  in  love,  no  doubt. 

Love  at  first  sight,  I've  sometimes  heard  it  said, 
Affects  the  heart,  but  oftener  the  head. 

Be  it  as  it  may,  he  surely  was  most  kind 

To  Glorietta,  never  dreaming  how 
Her  heart  with  Ivan  there  was  left  behind, 

Nor  saw  the  shade  that  often  crossed  her  brow. 
One  thought  was  his,  and  that  he  could  not  hide, 

The  hope  that  quickly  she  would  be  his  bride. 

Each  hour  he  thought  some  pleasant  thing  to  do 

To  please  her  fancy  or  to  kill  the  time; 
Rode  on  the  hills,  looked  on  the  desert  view, 

Or  climbed  the  canyons  glorious  and  sublime, 
Where  thundering  down  some  torrent  came  to  bless 

The  flowering  wastes,  the  desert's  loveliness. 

« 

And  lovelier  things  he  thought  of,  and  less  grand,. 
The  purple  sage-brush  that  was  everywhere, 

The  yellow  poppy  of  the  sun  and  sand, 
Enchanting  contrast  to  her  raven  hair; 

And  Manzanita  berries,  crimson  red. 

And  purple  heather  from  the  desert's  bed. 


GLORIETTA  57 

And  desert  holly  of  the  sanded  wild, 

Frost-white  and  fair  as  ever  fair  could  be, 

Sun-born  but  lone,  the  desert's  loveliest  child, 
Its  curling  leaves  God's  own  embroidery. 

All  these  were  hers,  and  others  yet  the  while, 
All  cheaply  purchased  by  a  single  smile. 

Day  in,  day  out,  the  old  new  lover  came; 

Was  it  not  time  to  answer  yes,  or  nay? 
Like  fair  Penelope,  who  did  the  same, 

She  prayed,  delaying  just  another  day, 
And  still  in  hopes  she  yet  might  surely  know 

If  Ivan  really  were  alive,  or  no. 

Just  then  a  letter  from  her  guardian  came; 

A  perfect  thunderbolt  it  must  have  been, 
Full  of  complaining,  and  of  every  blame, 

What  under  heaven  was  it  she  could  mean? 
"Could  it  be  so,  such  cold  ingratitude, 

Towards  one  who  always  was  so  kind  and  good? 

"Oft  he  had  heard  of  how  his  cousin  sought 
Her  hand  in  marriage,  and  of  her  delay: 

He  was  amazed,  for  was  this  cousin  not 
What  any  girl  could  like  most  any  day? 

Rich,  and  genteel,  and  good  to  look  upon, 
And  then,  still  more,  he  was  a  Spanish  don. 

"Then,  as  to  Ivan,  heaven  only  knew 

What  had  become  of  him;  perhaps  a  shark 

Had  simply  swallowed  him;  such  things  they  do! 
There  were  great  dangers  down  in  caverns  dark, 

And  anyway,  her  passion  for  him  must 

Long  since  have  turned  to  ashes  and  to  dust." 


58  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

There  seemed  no  choice;  that,  Glorietta  saw, 
This  unloved  marriage  was  a  thing  foregone. 

Her  guardian's  wishes,  were  they  not  a  law? 
She  was  as  helpless  as  a  mountain  fawn, 

And  yet  she  waited  still  another  day, 
And  never  answered  either  yes  or  nay. 

At  last  she  spoke.    It  was  a  ruse  to  find 

If  Ivan  really  were  alive  or  dead. 
"It  seems  to  me  that  I  could  speak  my  mind 

If  I  were  only  in  my  home,"  she  said. 
"There  in  our  garden  by  the  crystal  bay, 

There  I  could  answer  either  yea  or  nay." 

"Let  it  be  so!  Tomorrow,"  he  replied, 
Not  guessing  all  her  reasons  nor  the  why; 

"On  my  fleet  steeds  across  the  hills  we'll  ride." 
He  did  not  notice  Glorietta  sigh. 

He  had  forgotten,  too,  about  the  slip 

That  sometimes  happens  'twixt  the  cup  and  lip. 

Next  day  it  was  a  pretty  cavalcade 

That  crossed  the  mountains  westward  to  the  sea. 
The  Don,  his  sister,  and  the  beauteous  maid, 

And  some  retainers,  only  two  or  three. 
A  hundred  miles  was  nothing  then  to  ride, 

At  least  to  win  so  beautiful  a  bride! 

A  little  while,  and  now  in  Monterey, 
The  dear  old  city  by  the  sounding  sea, 

There  was  great  talk  among  the  young  and  gay 
Of  an  event  that  very  soon  would  be. 

"The  Don  was  rich,"  that  much  the  gossips  said, 
"And  Glorietta  had  come  home  to  wed." 


GLORIETTA  59 

Not  in  whole  years  had  there  been  such  a  stir. 

The  Alcalde's  ward  was  now  a  beauty,  grown, 
All  eyes  were  turned  for  but  a  glimpse  of  her 

Or  the  great  Don  who  claimed  her  for  his  own. 
A  little  while,  and  wedding  bells  would  ring, 

And  guests  be  bidden  to  the  revelling. 

Now  there  was  searching  of  old  wardrobes  through 
For  gowns  unique,  and  rich,  of  long  ago; 

Gold  satin  skirts,  and  rare  mantillas,  too, 

And  high-heeled  boots  with  gold  or  silver  bow; 

Queer  combs  from  Spain,  and  jewels  rare  and  bright, 
To  wear  on  Glorietta's  wedding  night. 

It  was  proclaimed  among  the  ladies  all, 
To  be  au  fait  one  must  be  gaily  dressed, 

And  there  would  be  a  Spanish  carnival, 
To  make  this  wedding  seem  the  very  best. 

The  men  also,  in  picturesque  array, 

Expectant  waited  for  the  wedding  day. 

Young  Ivan,  meantime,  had  been  lost  to  view; 

No  trace  of  him  could  Glorietta  find, 
And  now  there  seemed  no  other  thing  to  do 

Than  wed  the  Don,  though  much  against  her  mind; 
So,  though  in  tears,  she  gave  a  half  consent, 

And  all  was  fixed,  just  as  her  guardian  meant. 

The  day  has  come,  the  sun  will  soon  be  down, 
A  hundred  guests  on  horseback  gaily  ride 

Up  to  the  palace,  quite  outside  the  town, 

To  greet  the  bridegroom  and  to  kiss  the  bride; 

As  was  the  custom  in  the  days  of  yore, 
Each  rider  held  his  fair  one  on  before. 


60  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Down  by  the  sea  the  glad  old  mission  bells 
Ring  out  a  sweet,  a  half  voluptuous  chime. 

The  saintly  friar  there  a  moment  tells 

His  beads  to  heaven  in  his  dear,  happy  time: 

Then  turns  his  steps,  he  must  be  there  to  say 
The  nuptial  vows  on  this  their  wedding  day. 

At  her  high  window  Glorietta  stood, 
And  saw  the  riders  in  their  glad  array, 

Yet  felt  that  moment  that  she  almost  could 
Have  thrown  herself  into  the  shining  bay: 

All  seemed  a  mockery  to  her,  the  scene, 

Not  less  her  wedding  dress  of  gold  and  green. 

Out  on  the  lawn  a  bright  pavillion  showed, 
Hung  round  with  flags,  and  open  at  the  side, 

Already  circled  by  the  common  crowd, 

For  all  would  see  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride. 

Half  in  the  dark  one  silent  figure  leant 
Against  the  curtains  of  th'  illumined  tent. 

A  little  while,  and  look!    The  priest  has  come, 
And  bride  and  groom  walk  slowly  down  the  line. 

In  a  few  words  she  is  bid  welcome  home, 
By  the  Alcalde,  old  Count  Valentine. 

In  smiles  and  tears,  she  waits  the  solemn  word: 
Yet  listen,  now,  a  singer's  voice  is  heard. 

A  pretty  custom  in  the  land  they  had, 

That  girlhood  friends  about  the  bride  should  be, 

To  sing  some  song,  some  pretty  words,  nor  sad, 
To  wish  her  joy  and  all  felicity, 

Before  the  one  and  final  word  is  said, 

Before  the  priest  pronounced  her  duly  wed. 


62  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  so  to-night  the  singers  come  and  sing, 

And  to  a  lute  some  verses  improvise; 
Some  happy  thought,  perhaps  some  little  thing, 

Each  for  herself  some  pretty  couplet  tries, 
Then  hands  the  lute  to  her  who  next  her  is, 

Who  smiling  sings  of  future  ecstacies. 

Meanwhile  the  bride,  who  is  all  listening 
To  honied  phrases  she  is  glad  to  hear, 

Herself  prepares  some  pretty  song  to  sing, 
For  see,  the  lute  to  her  is  coming  near! 

That  moment  look,  her  eyes  are  quickly  bent 
On  that  lone  figure  by  the  curtained  tent. 

Half  in  the  shadow,  halfway  in  the  light, 
Two  sad  dark  eyes  are  looking  straight  at  hers. 

Heavens!  it  is  Ivan,  come  this  very  night! 
A  sudden  joy  her  inmost  bosom  stirs; 

She  dare  not  speak,  a  hundred  wait  around, 
And  he  were  dead  if  near  the  palace  found. 

Quick  beat  her  heart,  it  was  her  turn  to  sing, 

A  prayer  she  breathed  for  guidance.    What  to  do? 

Her  voice  she  feared  had  sudden  taken  wing, 

And  Ivan's  eyes  were  piercing  through  and  through. 

Oh!  would  some  saint  in  all  Love's  calendar 
That  moment  come  and  pitying  smile  on  her. 

She  waits  a  little — then  an  Indian  air 
Came  to  her  mind  that  he  had  often  sung. 

Not  one  would  know  it  of  the  many  there, 
For  it  was  only  of  the  Indian  tongue. 

She  took  the  lute  and  sang  a  melody 
Of  love  beside  the  Manzanita  tree: 


GLORIETTA  63 

The  moon's  above  the  ocean  now, 

Then  hasten  love,  to  me, 
And  keep  the  vow  you  made  beside 

The  Manzanita  tree. 

The  stars  across  the  heavens  sweep, 

As  faithful  as  can  be. 
Let  us  be  faithful,  too,  beside 

The  Manzanita  tree. 

The  mist  is  on  the  mountain  top, 

The  mist  is  on  the  lea, 
Tonight,  tonight,  we  meet  beside 

The  Manzanita  tree. 

The  Manzanita  berry's  ripe, 

And  red  as  red  can  be, 
O  who  would  not  go  loving  by 

The  Manzanita  tree. 

What  if  another  claim  my  hand, 
My  heart,  my  heart's  with  thee, 

So  we  will  meet  tonight  beside 
The  Manzanita  tree. 

Each  sigh,  each  thought,  the  listening  lover  heard, 
And  knows  the  meaning  of  the  song  she  sings, 

And  ere  the  priest  has  said  the  solemn  word 
A  steed  all  saddled  to  the  gate  he  brings: 

A  sign,  a  gesture,  from  her  lover  there, 

And  they  are  gone,  and  no  one  knoweth  where. 


64  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  they  have  mounted  on  the  swiftest  horse, 
The  fleetest  steed  the  Alcalde  ever  owned, 

They  ford  the  Carmel  in  its  swiftest  course, 

The  old  sea-bay  behind  them  moaned  and  moaned, 

And  many  a  cypress  gnarled  by  storm  and  wind 
There  in  the  moonlight  they  have  left  behind. 

Into  the  mountains,  all  the  night  they  rode, 
On  narrow  ways,  along  the  canyon's  side, 

Where  moon  and  stars  no  more  the  pathway  showed, 
Till  the  bright  dawn  the  flying  lovers  ride, 

Then  change  their  course,  for  path  there  now  is  none, 
And  leave  the  horse  and  climb  the  rocks  alone. 

And  still  a  day,  now  downward  toward  the  sea, 

Some  ignis  fatuus  beckons  them  along; 
Though  tired  of  limb  and  hungry  they  may  be, 

They  think  they  hear  some  soft,  sweet  siren's  song- 
It  is  the  sea-wave's  voice  alone  they  hear, 
Forever  sweet  to  any  lover's  ear. 

And  they  have  reached  the  hemmed-in  ocean's  shore, 
Cliffs  right  and  left,  behind  them  but  despair. 

Are  they  pursued,  there  is  not  any  more 

The  smallest  hope  of  further  flight  than  there: 

But  see!  a  ship  is  yonder  passing  by, 
Or  is't  a  phantom  of  the  mist  and  sky? 

Full-sailed  it  rides,  yet  scarcely  passes  on— 
"  'Tis  not  a  league,"  cried  Ivan,  "from  the  shore, 

Trust  to  my  arms:  a  thousand  times  I've  gone 
Down  in  the  deeps  and  braved  the  ocean's  roar. 

Here  it  is  calm,  and  yonder  ship  may  prove 
A  rest  from  flight,  a  refuge  place  for  love." 


66  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANTO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  they  are  gone  into  the  mist  and  wave, 
Far  out  of  sight  of  each  pursuing  one. 

If  in  the  sea  they  find  a  lovers'  grave, 

Now  who  may  know,  since  mist  and  ship  are  gone 

Time  and  the  sea,  no  matter,  kind  or  rude, 
Can  cover  all,  pursuers,  and  pursued. 

Still,  from  yon  cliff,  where  fisher-folk  repair, 
On  moonlight  nights  the  ocean  to  behold, 

'Tis  said  they  see,  if  but  the  mist  be  there, 
A  ship  all  shining  like  the  ship  of  old, 

And  on  the  deck  a  lady  walks  serene, 

Still  in  her  wedding  dress,  of  gold  and  green. 


LA  FAVORITA 


La  Favorita 
A  Tale  of  the  Spanish  Days  in  California. 

Twas  in  the  golden  summer-time, 

When  mocking-birds  their  carols  sung, 

And  friars  heard  the  soothing  rhyme, 
Soft  as  their  own  Castilian  tongue. 

The  mission  bells  of  San  Jose 
In  yonder  valley  sounded  near, 

And  echoing  hills  all  seemed  to  say, 
"Ave  Maria,  welcome  here!" 

'Twas  in  the  golden  summer-time, 

There  where  the  summers  longest  stay, 

A  friar  pilgrim  sought  to  climb 
The  mountain  road  to  Monterey. 

The  purple  wings  of  morning  fanned 
The  golden  poppies  everywhere, 

And  by  the  sea  and  on  the  land 
The  roses  scented  all  the  air. 

'Twas  in  that  sweet,  delicious  clime, 
Where  June  goes  ling'ring  on  and  on, 

Where  cold  nor  storm  nor  winter-time 
May  bid  the  roses  to  be  gone. 

So  on  the  king's  highway  he  went 
Toward  yonder  fair  horizon's  rim; 

Above  him  shone  God's  azure  tent, 

And  all  the  world  seemed  made  for  him. 


70  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRAXO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

It  was  Vincenzio,  knight  of  God, 
Defender  of  the  missions,  when 

His  lifted  cross  had  overawed 

The  swords  of  twice  a  hundred  men ; 

A  saintly  man,  and  pure  of  heart, 
Along  the  shores  there  was  a  tale 

That  once,  when  pilgriming  apart, 
His  eyes  had  seen  the  Holy  Grail. 

Not  this  alone ;  his  voice,  his  eye, 
Such  mystic  power  possessed,  a  zeal 

For  that  Christ  cross  he  held  on  high; 
No  soul  withstood  his  heart's  appeal. 

Brown-robed  and  sandaled,  staff  in  hand, 

At  times  he  rested  by  the  sea, 
Looked  at  the  sea-waves  come  to  land, 

Looked  at  the  sea's  infinity. 

And  thought  of  that  most  holy  shrine 
Whereto  his  pilgrimage  was  bent; 

"Dear  Serra's  grave,  O  Dios  mine, 
There  I  would  kneel  and  be  content.1' 

A  little  while  his  feet  have  pressed 
That  heaven-born  valley  of  delight; 

Sweet  Carmel  vale,  nor  east  nor  west 
Are  hills  so  green  or  scenes  so  bright. 

There  in  San  Carlos'  shrine  he  knelt, 

He  crossed  him  twice  and  meekly  prayed; 

When  sudden  on  his  cowl  he  felt 

A  \voman's  hand — and  sprang  dismayed. 


LA  FAVORITA  71 

No  ghost — too  fair  the  being  seemed, 
With  heavenly  eyes  and  golden  hair; 

He  knew  not  if  he  slept  and  dreamed, 
Or  if  it  were  an  angel  there. 

"Thou  knoiv'st  not  'who  I  am,"  she  said, 
"But  here  in  dear  Carmelo's  shrine 

I  too  would  humbly  bow  my  head 
And  bid  thee  hear  this  tale  of  mine. 

"Outside  these  doors  three  cavaliers 

Impatient  wait  to  claim  my  hand; 
And  they  are  armed  with  sword  or  spears, 

And  each  is  lord  on  sea  or  land. 

"Not  much  I  love,  nor  heart  have  I ; 

I  have  a  hundred  loves  withstood; 
And  he  I  choose  will  surely  die; 

That  much  is  writ  in  Spanish  blood. 

"For,  spite  of  loves  my  fairness  won, 

Still  I  was  never  yet  content; 
Like  chaff  they  seemed  when  all  was  done; 

Like  chaff  they  came,  like  chaff  they  went. 

"And  all  the  time  my  thoughts  have  run 

On  a  strange  promise  that  I  made, 
And  how  tomorrow's  setting  sun 

Will  set  upon  a  heart  dismayed." 

***** 

"I  know  thee  well,"  the  friar  spoke; 

"Thou  art  that  far-famed  Isabel, 
La  Favorita;  she  who  broke 

More  hearts  than  all  my  beads  could  telL" 


72  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

In  truth  she  was  that  Isabel; 

No  one  so  beauteous  far  or  near; 
Where'er  she  went  she  cast  a  spell 

On  humble  folk  or  cavalier. 

The  sky's  blue  light  was  in  her  eyes; 

Such  loveliness  of  cheeks  she  had 
As  in  the  rose's  petals  lies; 

A  face  men  seeing  once  were  glad. 

If  Spanish  ships  sailed  down  the  shore, 
The  Spanish  sailors  all  would  say, 

"Oh,  let  us  have  one  look  the  more 
At  Isabel  of  Monterey." 

The  brown-robed  friars  passing  by 
Would  count  a  bead  or  two  for  her, 

Say  "Ave  Maria"  with  a  sigh, 
Almost  forgetting  who  they  were. 

At  festival  and  rout  and  ball 

Her  satin  slippers  skimmed  the  floor; 

One  felt  he  had  no  heart  at  all, 
Or  else  he  felt  it  throb  the  more. 

What  though  it  was  a  land  where  reigned 
A  hundred  beauties  everywhere? 

He  had  been  blind,  or  else  had  feigned, 
Who  saw  another  like  to  her. 

What  though  it  was  a  land  where  men 
Were  rich  in  pearls  from  yonder  bay, 

Where  gold  lay  hid  in  every  glen, 
And  ladies  shone  in  fine  array? 


THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

She  would  be  finer  than  them  all 
In  pearls  and  gems  and  rich  attire, 

That  when  she  entered  rout  or  ball 
The  dancers  stopped  but  to  admire. 

She  would  have  jewels  such  as  shone 
In  fair  Loretto's  sacred  shrine; 

"Why  should  some  wooden  image  own 
A  hundred  pearls  outshining  mine?" 

And  so  it  was  one  afternoon 
Down  on  the  plaza  by  the  sea, 

She  walked  and  heard  the  sea-waves'  tune; 
The  sea-waves  kept  her  company. 

When  suddenly  three  lovers  came; 

They  had  been  suitors  many  days; 
They  told  her  of  her  beauty's  fame, 

Her  ears  heard  nothing  but  their  praise. 

But  they  were  weary  of  delay, 
And  would  she  not  be  less  unkind 

And,  whether  yes  or  whether  nay, 

Now  tell  them  what  was  in  her  mind? 

She  smiled  and  jestingly  replied, 
"Tomorrow  night's  th'  Alcalde's  ball; 

There  in  the  dancing  I'll  decide 

Which  is  the  knightliest  knight  of  all. 

"I  have  great  love  for  jeweled  rings 

And  pearls  most  precious  in  the  land; 
Who  best  of  these  tomorrow  brings, 

Tomorrow  night  shall  have  my  hand." 

*     *     * 


LA  FAVORITA  75 

And  this  is  she,  fair  Isabel, 

Now  kneeling  at  the  altar  rail; 
Each  act,  each  word,  she  fain  would  tell ; 

The  friar  listened  to  her  tale. 

Again  she  spoke:  "Dear  Father,  look! 

My  suitors  wait  outside  the  door ; 
No  more  delaying  will  they  brook, 

This  day  I  have,  and  one  day  more." 

A  light  illumed  the  friar's  face, 

A  light  as  if  from  heaven  sent; 
Not  once  before  in  all  her  days 

Had  look  so  strange  on  her  been  bent. 

Sweet  were  his  eyes  so  soft  and  brown, 

Such  eyes  as  angels  might  possess, 
Or  such  as  Raphael's  pictures  crown 

When  looked  at  in  their  loveliness. 

She  heard  his  voice;  and  never  yet 

Had  kinder,  sweeter  tones  been  heard; 

What  wonder  if  her  eyes  were  wet, 
Or  that  her  soul  was  deeply  stirred? 

A  moment,  and  she  seemed  to  think 

Life's  curtain  parted,  as  it  were, 
And  she  herself  upon  some  brink, 

And  those  deep  eyes  were  pitying  her. 

The  friar,  list'ning,  seemed  to  know 
The  thing  that  was  her  heart's  desire: 

On  the  great  morrow  should  she  go 
To  sell  her  soul  for  gold  and  hire? 


76  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"Thou  seekest  for  guidance?    Maiden !  go ! 

Keep  thou  the  promise  lightly  given; 
What  words  to  answer  thou  shalt  know; 

There  shall  be  light  that  hour  from  heaven.' 

As  in  a  dream  she  left  the  place; 

A  something  spoke  within  her  breast; 
She  felt  the  bright  eyes  on  her  face, 

They  told  of  peace  and  calm  and  rest. 

The  sun  was  set;  the  candles  shone 

In  the  Alcalde's  hall  of  state, 
And  torchlights  back  and  forth  were  blown 

Among  the  roses  by  the  gate. 

Within  was  festival  and  dance 
And  sound  of  flute  and  Castanet; 

And  dark  eyes  glowed  as  if  by  chance 
On  darker  eyes  more  glowing  yet. 

A  little  while  the  feast  was  on, 

The  tables  groaned  with  fruits  and  wine, 

And  through  the  windows  from  the  lawn 
Came  breath  of  rose  and  eglantine; 

And  look!  Among  the  guests  was  one — 
A  brown-robed  priest  of  quiet  mien; 

He  had  come  late,  this  silent  one, 
And  softly  joined  the  happy  scene. 

And  now  'twas  whispered  round  the  board: 
"This  very  night  we  all  shall  hear 

Which  of  the  knights  with  star  and  sword 
La  Favorita  holds  most  dear." 


78  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRAXO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Soon,  too,  amid  the  toasts  and  wine, 
The  lovers  entered  in  the  hall; 

The  first  one's  gifts  were  lands  and  kine, 
'Twere  wearisome  to  name  them  all. 

The  second  spoke:    "Great  pearls  have  I, 
Like  those  Loretto's  self  doth  wear; 

Sweet  counterfeits — I'd  have  them  lie 
Upon  my  sweet  heart's  golden  hair." 

Proud  rose  the  third:   "No  copies  mine, 
No  counterfeits  by  fairy  elves; 

Last  night  I  came  from  yonder  shrine, 
I  bring  Loretto's  pearls  themselves." 

A  thrill  of  horror  ran  around, 
As  to  the  door  a  guardsman  came, 

With  burning  words  and  voice  profound 
He  called  the  guilty  lover's  name. 

"Five  nights  ago  the  sacristan 
At  far  LorettoXchurch  was  slain; 

Hast  thou  the  pearls?    Thou  art  the  man; 
Upon  thy  soul  the  guilt  is  lain!" 

Dumb  and  in  rage  the  lover  stood, 
The  shackles  clanked  upon  his  feet; 

The  guests  all  crossed  themselves,  for  blood 
Seemed  on  the  bread,  the  wine,  the  meat. 

And  look!  Now  rises  at  the  board 
Yon  silent  friar,  cross  in  hand; 

His  tender  eyes,  his  tenderer  word, 
At  once  the  assembled  guests  command. 


LA  FAVORITA  79 

Kindly  he  speaks:    "Fair  Isabel, 

Thou  seest  now  how  vain  is  pride; 
There's  but  one  pearl  that  doth  excel, 

There  is  no  other  pearl  beside." 

"Well  didst  thou  pledge  thy  life  to  give 
For  the  one  pearl  the  highest  priced; 

More  high  than  all — behold  and  live! 
I  bring  thee  here  the  tears  of  Christ!" 

As  comes  sometimes  without  a  thought 

Some  mem'ry  of  forgotten  things, 
As  if  the  mind  a  moment  caught 

A  glimpse  of  the  old  happenings— 

So,  suddenly,  to  Isabel 

Came  thoughts  again  of  yonder  shrine, 
Again  she  felt  the  holy  spell, 

The  eyes,  the  voice,  almost  divine. 

And  they  are  calling  her  again, 
The  Shrine,  the  cross,  of  yesterday; 

With  tears,  as  falls  the  summer  rain, 

"Here  are  my  pearls,"  they  heard  her  say. 

"I  will  do  penance  for  my  pride; 

There  is  a  convent  by  the  shore, 
There  many  days  will  I  abide 

In  doing  service  for  the  poor." 

And  yonder  where  the  sea-waves  moan 

By  yonder  convent,  on  the  hill, 
Fair  Isabel  is  fondly  known; 

She  is  La  Favorita  still. 


80  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  often  on  the  king's  highway 
A  friar  pilgrim  waves  his  hand; 

He  waves  it  twice,  as  if  to  say— 

"Your  pearl  is  noblest  in  the  land." 


A  MADONNA  OF  THE  RANCH 


A  Madonna  of  the  Ranch 

Where  Sierra  Madre's  mountains  look  in  gladness  on 

the  sea, 
And  the  scented  air  floats  upward  from  the  lime  and 

orange  tree, 
Where  the  whole  land  seems  a  garden,  all  abloom  with 

fruit  and  flowers, 
And  the  sky  that  bends  above  it  is  a  lovelier  sky  than 

ours, 

Stretching  there  along  the  ocean  for  a  hundred  leagues 

or  so, 
Are  the  grand  old  mission   ruins  of  the  strange  and 

long  ago. 
Here  and  there  a  pilgrim  passing,  thinking  of  the  days 

agone, 
When  these  half-forgotten  ruins  were  as  splendid  as  the 

dawn- 
Breathes  a  sigh  half  exclamation  that  a  people  should 

forget 

Such  a  heritage  of  glory,  ere  its  sun  be  wholly  set! 
Never  make  a  seeming  struggle,  ere  the  struggle  be  too 

late, 
For  the  saving  of  the  temples  that  have  glorified  the 

state. 

In  the  name  of  Junipero,  him  who  laid  the  stepping- 
stone 
For  a  grandeur  and  a  glory  that  you  proudly  call  your 

own- 
Let  a  cry  go  to  the  mountains,  and  from  mountains  back 

to  sea. 
That  these  ruins  be  re-builded  for  a  future  vet  to  be. 


84  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Be  re-builded  in  the  beauty  of  each  arch  and  belfry  low 
Pedro  Benedetto  painted  in  the  strange  and  long  ago. 
In  my  mind  again  I  see  him,  in  the  long  sweet  summer 

days, 
Cowled  and  hooded  at  the  mission,  now  in  painting, 

now  in  praise. 

Never  yet  had  Grecian  statue  half  so  beautiful  a  face, 
Never  Phidias  had  chiseled  such  a  form  of  strength 

and  grace 
As  the  outlines,  half-discovered,  in  the  thin  old  robe 

he  wore, 
Painting  pictures  of  the  padres  standing  in  the  mission 

door. 

Little  wonder  that  the  missions  by  the  coast-line  up 

and  down 
Saw  and  praised  the  new  Adonis,  in  the  old  Franciscan 

gown. 
Not  so  much  as  priest  they  praised  him;  'twas  the  gift 

he  had  to  paint, 
And  they  thought  him  somewhat  worldly,  and  not  born 

to  be  a  saint. 

In  the  old  ranchero  mansions  he  was  welcomed  every 

where, 

And  the  black-eyed  senoritas  saw  no  padre  to  compare. 
At  the  old  Presidio  dances  he  was  there  among  the 


When  the  guardsmen  rode  at  races,  he  could  ride  as  fast 
as  they. 

There  was  something  in  his  manner  that  was  very  hani 

to  guess; 
Like  a  secret  one  discloses,  yet  keeps  hidden  none  the 

less. 


A  MADONNA  OF  THE  RANCH  85 

Very  mortal  one  had  called  him — not  to  praise  nor  yet 

condemn- 
Not  too  holy  to  be  human,  good  as  many  priests  were 

then. 

Love  it  seemed  he  never  thought  of,  save  for  beauty 

as  it  lay 

In  the  color  on  the  canvas  that  he  painted  day  by  day. 
All  the  life  about  the  missions,  brown-robed  padres 

kneeling  there— 
And  the  neophyte  processions  as  they  went  to  early 

prayer. 

These,  and  brown-faced  Indian  maidens  in  the  sunshine 

on  the  sand, 
Weaving  blankets,  making  baskets,  pounding  out  their 

corn  by  hand. 
All  he  painted,  and  the  missions,  not  in  ruins  falling 

low, 
But  in  noble  mission  grandeur  of  the  days  of  long  ago; 

Sketched  great  herds  of  grazing  cattle,  vast  in  numbers 

everywhere, 
With  the  young  vacqueros  guarding  from  the  mountain 

lion's  snare. 
Painted  saints,  and  boy-like  angels,  on  the  mission  walls 

within, 
And  the  brown-robed  padres  walking  ere  the  vespers 

would  begin. 

Painted  threshers  with  the  oxen  tramping  out  the  har 
vest  grain, 

As  they  did  in  days  of  Boaz,  they  were  doing  now  again. 

As  they  did  in  gray  old  Egypt,  in  a  time  most  out  of 
mind, 

So  they  tossed  the  new  grain  upwards  to  be  winnowed 
by  the  wind. 


86  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Painted  sunsets  full  of  glory,  such  as  only  there  are  seen, 
Like  the  crimson  gates  of  heaven  when  the  ocean  is 

serene. 
Sketched  the  guardsmen   of  the  mission,   at  the  old 

Presidio, 
And  the  Indians  of  the  desert  where  the  holly-bushes 

grow. 

Painted  black-eyed  senoritas  from  the  ranches  far  and 

near, 
And  the  fleet  and  wondrous  horses  of  the  new-world 

cavalier; 
Silver-spurred  and  gay  rancheros  hast'ing  to  the  coming 

race, 
To  the  bull-fight,  and  the  bear-fight,  at  the  old-time 

fighting  place. 

All,  he  painted,  when  the  labors  of  the  mission  would 

allow, 
Yesterday  some  Indian  maiden,  some  young  caballero 

now. 

Yet  he  found  not  in  the  faces  on  the  canvas  that  he  drew, 
Any  soul  behind  the  picture,  any  eyes  that  looked  him 

through. 

"I  would  paint  the  virgin  mother  on  this  canvas  white 

of  mine, 
Just  a   pure  sweet  country  maiden   like   the   girls   in 

Palestine." 
Long  he  sought  for  it,  the  one  face  that  in  very  truth 

could  be 
All  his  waking  mind  could  fancy,  all  his  dreaming  eyes 

could  see. 

Long  he  waited,  dreamed  and  waited,  till  the  sunset 
of  a  day 


88  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

When  the  vesper  bells  were  ringing  in  a  sweet  half- 
saddened  way- 
Came  a  footstep,  almost  noiseless,  to  the  open  mission 

door, 

Came  a  fair  and  girlish  figure  bearing  gifts  for  yonder 
poor. 

In  her  hands  were  golden  poppies,  in  her  face  a  beauty 

lay 
Like  the  roses  and  the  lilies  that  she  gathered  by  the 

way. 
Thrice  she  came,  the  lovely  Inez,  when  the  vesper  bells 

would  ring, 
Came  the  same  soft  footstep  answering  to  the  old  bells 

caroling. 

Thrice  she  came,  and  quick  departed,   leaving  little 

gifts  of  love, 
While  the  vesper  bells  kept  ringing  in  the  old  bell 

tower  above. 
Just  a  glimpse,  and  Benedetto  in  that  fleeting  moment 

felt 
She  was  here,  the  one  he  dreamed  of,  here  were  eyes 

that  seemed  to  melt. 

Here  were  eyes  of  gladsome  splendor,  here  were  cheeks 

of  such  a  hue— 

Not  a  blush-rose  in  the  garden  ever  lovelier  color  knew. 
Just  a  tint  of    brave    brown    olive  in  a    face    beyond 

compare- 
Just  a  harmony  of  color  with  the  midnight  of  her  hair. 

"He  must  go," — the  padres  said  it,  "he  must  find  from 

whence  she  came, 
He,   the  youngest,  he  must  thank  her,   in  the    oldest 

padre's  name." 


A  MADONNA  OF  THE  RANCH  89 

Not  for  long  he  sought  to  find  her;  not  for  long  does 

beauty  hide- 
Being  conscious  it  is  beauty,  knowing  how  'tis  glorified. 

Where  the  great  ranch  of  her  father  stretched  for 
twenty  miles  and  more, 

Where  the  old  adobe  mansion  looked  straight  down 
ward  to  the  shore, 

Where  in  half-way  Spanish  splendor  lived  the  rich  old 
ranchero, 

Like  an  old  Castilian  noble  of  the  long,  longtime  ago, — • 

There  where  swept  the  purple  blossoms  from  the  bou- 

gainvillea  vine, 

Where  the  lemon  on  the  terrace  cast  an  odor  half  divine, 
There  he  found  her,  with  her  pigeons,  by  the  gray  old 

.terrace  wall, 
Talking  with  them  as  companions,  with  a  name    for 

each  and  all. 

Once  that  greetings  kind  were  over,  through  the  garden 

aisles  they  go, 
Talking  of  the  grand  old  missions,  looking  on  the  sea 

below. 
Talking  of  the  olive  orchards,  of  the  herds  of  sheep 

and  kine, 
Of    the  golden  yellow  poppies,  and  the  purple-laden 

vine, 

Of  "El  Camino  Real,"  stretching  yonder  by  the  sea, 

Where  the  brown-robed  padres  pilgrimed  with  their 
thoughts  for  company, 

Where  the  cavaliers  rode  gaily  to  some  evening  ser 
enade, 

While  some  senorita  waited  at  the  half-closed  window 
shade. 


90  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Heard  their  silver-mounted  bridles  as  they  jingled  light 

and  gay, 
Saw  the  all-beribboned  gallants  as  they  galloped  on 

the  way. 
Yonder,  too,  beheld  the  ranches  of  her  father's  kith 

and  kin, 
Owners  of  the  boundless  acres  where  the  Indians  once 

had  been. 

Once  they  gazed  to  where  the  purple  of  the  far-off 
islands  were, 

Though  they  talked  of  isles  and  ocean,  yet  his  thoughts 
were  all  of  her. 

"Might  he  paint  her?  'Twere  a  treasure  for  the  mis 
sions  beyond  bound, 

He  would  paint  her  on  the  terrace,  with  her  pigeons 
all  around. 

He  would  paint  her  with  the  poppies,  gold  and  yellow, 

on  her  breast, 
And  her  hair  all  loose  and  tangled  by  the  soft  winds 

of  the  west." 
Deep  she  blushed,  all  seeming  happy,  as  she  answered, 

soft  and  low, 
"If  my  simple  face  be  worthy,  then  I  answer,  be  it  so." 

So  he  painted  on  the  terrace,  where  the  orange  blossoms 

fell, 
Never  yet  in  all  his  painting  had  he  painted  half  so 

well. 
Every  grace  of  face  and  figure,  every  charm  her  being 

knew, 
In  a  soft  idyllic  beauty  on  the  happy  canvas  grew. 

Day  by  day  he  came  and  painted  at  the  dear  accustomed 
place, 


92  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Finding  ever  some  new  beauty  in  the  gladness  of  her 

face. 
Feeling  ever  some  new  feeling,  something  stranger  to 

his  heart, 
Something  not  of  paint  and  brushes,  something  not 

akin  to  art. 

In  her  face  the  rapturous  colors,  like  enchantment  rose 

and  fell, 
In  her  eyes  there  seemed  a  secret  that  her  lips  might 

never  tell. 
Once  he  touched  the  golden  yellow  of  the  poppies  that 

she  wore, 
And  a  thrill  went  through  his  being  that  he  never  felt 

before. 

Was  it  love?     He  dared  not  think  it — he  a  priest  of 

solemn  vow, 
He  would  thrust  it  from  his  bosom,  he  would  put  it 

from  him  now. 
Yet  he  painted  on,  forgetting  all  the  danger  that  could 

lie 
In  the  crimson  of  her  blushes,  in  the  starlight  of  her  eye. 

To  herself  it  seemed  as  dreaming,  as  she  watched  the 

painter's  hand, 
Saw  herself  as  if  transfigured  by  some  wondrous  magic 

wand. 
Once  she  heard  the  far-off  music  of    the  low  wind  in 

the  firs, 
Never  dreaming  while  she  listened  that  his  soul  passed 

into  hers— 

Till  a  day,  when  all  was  finished,  and  the  painter  was 

alone, 
Gazing  on  the  perfect  picture,  that  was  sweet  love's 

very  own— 


A  MADONNA  OF  THE  RANCH  93 

She  beheld  him  kneel  and  kiss  it,  from  her  vine-clad 

hiding  place, 

As  Pygmalion  kissed  the  marble  of  his  Galatea's  face- 
So  he  kissed  the  perfect  likeness,  on  the  eyes,  and  lips, 

and  hair, 

Never  knowing,  she,  he  painted,  stood  behind  him  smil 
ing  there. 
Till  the  soft  leaves,  all  a-rustle,  like  the  footsteps  of 

an  elf, 

Made  him  half  forget  the  picture  when  he  saw  her 
very  self. 

Deep  confused,  she  spake  and  said  it:    "Now  I  know 

you  love  me  well, 
Long  I,  too,  have  kept  a  secret;  you  have  broken  here 

the  spell, 
Am  I  she  for  whom  you're  longing?    Dare  you,  then, 

to  love  me  so? 
Dare  you  break  the  cords  that  bind  you?    Would  you 

rather  let  me  go?" 

"Hear  me,  lovely  Inez,  listen:  I  was  born  in  old  Se 
ville, 

I  a  p,riest  at  one  and  twenty,  I  a  priest  against  my  will. 

Orphaned  as  a  child,  a  guardian  taught  me  all  the 
church's  rules, 

I  should  be  a  priest  or  nothing,  and  consented,  fool  of 
fools. 

"I  whose  gifts  had  made  me  famous  in  the  salons  of 

the  great, 
Never  then  had  been  a  football,  in  the  fickle  hands  of 

Fate. 
I  was  fettered  down  to  routine,  all  was  narrow  that  I 

knew; 


A  MADONNA  OF  THE  RANCH  95 

In  your  face  was  heaven's  gladness;  I  was  born  again 
in  you. 

"Is  it  sin,  then,  if,  recanting,  I  undo  the  cord  that  held— 
Kept  me  where  my  life  belonged  not,  where  for  long 

I  had  rebelled? 
I  am  loved;  what  is  there  greater?    Gift  that  heaven 

to  mortals  gave, 
Strong  are  vows,  but  love  is  stronger;  love  can  reach 

beyond  the  grave. 

"Who  shall  care  what  comes  tomorrow,  if    but  love 

itself  remain, 
Binding  into  one  forever   souls   that  yesterday  were 

twain! 
Would   I    rather  that  you   leave  me?    Heaven   itself 

can  answer  No; 
While  your  eyes  are  shining  on  me,  every  joy  is  here 

below. 

"Stood  the  gates  of  heaven  open,  bidding  me  to  enter 

there, 

Where  all  things  are  as  enchanted,  perfumes  gladden 
ing  all  the  air- 
Leaving  thee  behind,  I  would  not,  though  the  lights 

forever  shone, 

Though  the  angels  were  about  me,  yet  I  still  would  be 
alone. 

"Let  us  go;  the  world's  advancing,  thought  has  broad 
ened  everywhere; 

Heaven  is  reached  by  good  deeds  only,  not  alone  by 
psalms  and  prayer. 

In  the  new  world  that  we'll  live  in,  love  itself  shall 
master  be, 


96  THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRAXO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  I  still  will  be  a  painter,  finding  fame  for  three  and 


me." 


In  the  records  of  the  missions,  Pedro's  name  no  more 

appears— 

It  is  gone;  the  padres  lost  it  in  the  going  of  the  years. 
But  in  Seville  there  are  pictures  of  the  missions  known 

to  fame, 
On   the   lower   right-hand   corner   still   is   Benedetto's 

name. 

And  among  them  one  is  fairer,  greater  far  than  all  the 

rest; 
It  is  Inez  of  the  missions,  with  the  poppies  on  her 

breast. 

And  the  stranger  passing  sees  it,  and  he  stops  to  gaze 

awhile, 
Looking  at  the  perfect   beauty  that    upon  him    seems 

to  smile, 
And  a  something  seems  to  tell  him  from  the  days  that 

long  are  flown, 
"He  who  painted  this  sweet  picture,  painted  it  for  love 

alone." 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  PINON  TREE 


The  Feast  of  the  Pinon  Tree 

(NoTE — The  Pinon  tree  (pronounced  Peenyon)  is  of  the  nut  pine  variety  in  the 
Sierra  Mountains.  John  Muir,  the  naturalist,  describes  it  as  about  forty  feet  high, 
with  wide  extending  branches.  Its  cones  are  a  foot  long,  and  filled  with  the  most 
delicious  nuts  or  seeds.  The  tree  produces  a  prodigious  quantity  of  nuts,  and  the 
total  crop  has  been  at  times  estimated  to  equal  half  the  wheat  crop  of  California. 
These  nuts  are  often  the  principal  food  of  the  Mono,  Carson,  and  other  tribes  of 
mountain  Indians.  The  cones  are  opened  by  roasting  in  the  fire.  Festivals  and 
dances  are  held  around  the  tree  at  the  gathering-time  every  autumn.  It  is  a  wonder 
fully  unique  spectacle.  The  tree  is  held  almost  sacred  by  the  Indians,  and  many  a 
white  man  has  been  killed  for  cutting  it  down.) 

We  were  all  in  the  ship's  forecastle, 

With  never  a  thing  to  do, 
For  the  decks  were  washed  and  the  sails  all  set, 

And  the  ship  like  a  sea-bird  flew. 

We  were  close  to  the  world's  equator, 

With  strange  thoughts  in  our  mind 
Of  the  strange  new  stars  above  us, 

And  the  dear  stars  left  behind. 

It  was  now  farewell  to  Venus, 

To  the  Great  Bear,  and  the  rest, 
To  Orion's  belt,  and  the  North  Star, 

And  the  Dog  Star  in  the  west. 

And  away  in  the  dim  horizon, 

Strange  stars  in  the  heavens  blazed, 
'Twas  the  Southern  Cross  there  shining, 

And  we  stood  on  the  deck  and  gazed. 

And  a  new  star-world  was  around  us, 

From  the  midnight  till  the  dawn— 
And  the  red  sun  rose  at  morning, 

And  the  wind  with  the  night  was  gone. 


100         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

When  like  to  an  infant's  cradle, 

The  blue  sea  rose  and  fell, 
And  we  heard  the  black  whale's  breathing 

Like  the  sob  of  a  sea's  low  swell. 

And  we  saw  on  the  quiet  waters 

The  smooth  low  billows  toss, 
A  great  white  bird  there  sleeping; 

'Twas  the  white-winged  Albatross. 

And  never  on  land  or  ocean 
Was  there  seen  a  lovelier  thing 

Than  the  beautiful  bird  there  sleeping 
With  its  head  beneath  its  wing. 

And  we  sailors  looked  and  wondered, 
And  thought  of  the  isles  of  spice, 

And  the  bird  with  its  white  wings  folded, 
Like  the  angels  of  Paradise. 

And  we  wondered  if  it  were  dreaming 

Out  there  on  the  sea  alone 
Of  another  bird,  still  fairer, 

Somewhere  in  a  Southern  zone. 

For  spite  of  our  wild  sea-roving, 

And  spite  of  our  sailors'  air, 
There  was  that  that  touched  us  somehow 

In  the  lone  bird  sleeping  there. 

p     Then  we  talked  of  the  lands  out  yonder 

By  the  far  Pacific's  shore— 
Of  the  homes  wre  had  left  behind  us, 
And  the  stars  we  might  see  no  more. 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  PINON  TREE  101 

And  so  in  the  ship's  forecastle, 

With  never  a  thing  to  do, 
Each  shipmate  told  some  story 

Of  the  land  we  were  going  to. 

Of  the  strange  old  Spanish  missions, 

Of  the  friars  robed  in  brown, 
And  the  old  bells  with  their  music 

When  the  sun  was  going  down. 

And  the  youngest  shipmate  told  us 

A  tale  that  he  once  had  heard, 
For  it  all  came  back  to  his  memory 

On  seeing  the  great  white  bird. 

So  we  gave  him  the  seat  of  honor, 

And  waited  a  little  spell, 
As  we  sat  on  our  chests  and  listened 

For  the  story  he  had  to  tell. 

*     *     * 

"It  was  twenty  years,  in  the  April— 

And  I  was  a  lad  in  Spain, 
When  I  shipped  on  a  Spanish  clipper 

For  the  far  Pacific  main. 

Perhaps  it  was  gain  we  sought  for, 

Wherever  the  trade  might  be, 
And  we  steered  straight  west  and  southwards, 

For  a  new  Spain  by  the  sea. 

For  the  land  of  the  rose  and  palm  tree — 

The  orange  blooms  and  the  lime — 
Where  the  mocking-birds  were  singing 

The  whole  sweet  summer  time. 


102         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

So  we  voyaged  west  and  southwards, 

And  ever  on  deck  was  one, 
A  dark-eyed  youth  of  twenty, 

And  browned  by  a  Spanish  sun. 

'Twas  little  he  talked  with  the  ship's  crew, 

But  often  he  seemed  to  be 
Alone  with  the  skipper  talking— 

And  we  guessed  at  some  mystery. 

He  was  dressed  like  a  village  huntsman, 

In  garb  of  the  plainest  green, 
Nor  a  simpler  garb,  nor  a  plainer, 

No  sailor  had  ever  seen. 

And  a  wonderful  silver  bugle, 

As  polished  and  bright  as  day, 
Swung  gaily  down  from  the  ribbon 

That  over  his  shoulder  lay. 

And  on  the  bugle  a  picture 

A  bird,  with  its  wings  across, 
Like  the  bird  we  had  seen  on  the  ocean, 

The  beautiful  albatross. 

'Twas  a  gypsy's  gift,  the  bugle, 

With  the  albatross  design, 
"And  it  bears  a  charm,"  she  told  him, 

"For  a  wonderful  love  of  thine." 

Philippe,  the  skipper  called  him, 

And  that  was  all  we  knew — 
But  we  sailors  loved  to  listen 

Whenever  his  bugle  blew. 


104         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

So  around  Cape  Horn  we  wrestled 

With  many  a  wind  unkind; 
'Twas  a  sad,  tempestuous  ocean, 

But  at  last  it  was  left  behind. 

Then  a  calm  set  in  on  the  ocean, 

Yet  a  dear  wind  tried  to  blow 
From  the  nearby  California 

Where  the  lime  and  the  orange  grow. 

And  we  almost  saw  the  palm  trees, 

So  near  we  were  to  the  land, 
While  an  odorous  air  came  to  us 

Like  the  odors  of  Samercand. 

And  ever  at  times  Philippe, 

When  the  ship  was  going  free, 
Blew  soft  notes  on  his  bugle 

To  the  glad  and  listening  sea. 

Till  back  from  the  sunset  islands 

The  echoing  answers  came, 
While  the  wind  went  down  on  the  ocean, 

And  the  sun  went  down  in  a  flame. 

And  again  the  breezes  quickened, 

And  quicker  the  dear  ship  flew, 
While  we  thought  of  the  strange  one  with  us, 

And  the  land  we  were  going  to. 

There  was  still  a  bit  of  the  twilight, 

And  we  heard  the  stranger  say— 
"It  is  there  I  would  be  landed, 

By  the  cove,  and  the  little  bay." 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  PINON  TREE  105 

So  the  ship  lay  to  for  a  little, 

And  the  gig-boat  went  ashore, 
And  we  left  him  there  on  the  sea-sand, 

Nor  asked  would  we  see  him  more. 

Nor  not  so  strange  we  thought  it 

A  thing  like  that  to  do— 
For  many  a  man  thus  wandered 

From  the  old  Spain  to  the  new. 

There  alone  on  the  sand  we  left  him, 

With  never  a  comrade  nigh, 
With  only  the  darkness  around  him, 

And  a  great  red  moon  in  the  sky. 

But  not  till  the  ship  sailed  homewards 

Did  ever  we  sailors  find 
The  strange  things  that  had  happened 

To  him  we  had  left  behind. 

*     *     * 

Through  a  little  valley  upwards, 

Away  from  the  sea  he  went, 
But  the  high  hills  hid  the  red  moon 

And  the  little  light  that  it  lent. 

It  was  midnight's  black  in  the  mountains 

And  a  fog  was  over  the  sea, 
And  the  coyote's  bark  in  the  darkness 

Was  his  only  company. 

And  at  last,  worn  out  and  weary, 

To  the  side  of  a  tree  he  crept, 
And  in  spite  of  the  wild  things  'round  him 

Till  the  dawn  of  the  day  he  slept. 


106        THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRAXO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Till  the  dawn  of  the  day;  but  listen! 

The  leaves  at  his  side  were  stirred, 
And  his  heart  almost  went  from  him 

When  the  voice  of  a  man  was  heard. 

For  just  a  moment  he  listened, 

Then  opened  his  eyes  apace, 
And  behold!  a  brown-robed  friar 

Stood  looking  him  in  the  face! 

"What — lost?"  'twas  the  friar  speaking, 

And  reaching  a  tender  hand— 
"May  the  heavens  greet  you,  brother, 

Whatever  may  be  your  land. 

"Let  me  share  with  you  the  little 
That's  left  of  this  bread  of  mine, 

And  drink  of  the  cooling  water. 
And  taste  of  this  grateful  wine. 

"It  is  sure  that  no  bed  of  roses 
Was  yours  in  the  night  that's  by, 

With  the  fog  down  there  on  the  ocean, 
And  the  stars  gone  out  of  the  sky. 

"And  the  noise  of  the  preparation! 

You  surely  have  heard  it  all, 
For  half  of  the  night  they  were  gathering 

To  a  wonderful  festival." 

"To  a  festival!  holy  father,— 

And  what  is  the  thing  you  say? 
Is  some  strange  magic  around  me? 

Do  I  walk  in  my  sleep  by  day?" 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  PINON  TREE  107 

"What,  you  never  heard  it,  brother?" 

Amazed,  the  friar  said— 
"How  the  wild  folk  come  here  autumns, 

To  gather  their  winter  bread. 

"And  that  there  by  the  sloping  hillside, 

In  the  sight  of  the  shining  sea— 
They  dance,  they  laugh  and  they  call  it 

The  feast  of  the  Pinon  tree. 

"At  noon  by  the  bells  of  the  mission, 

A  league,  not  more,  from  here, 
And  the  strange  wild  feast  commences, 

You  can  almost  hear  them  cheer. 

"  'Tis  a  wild  yet  timid  people, 

And  fond  of  the  song  and  dance; 
We  may  cross  by  the  pine  grove  yonder 

And  see  them  all  by  chance." 

So  they  went  from  the  darkening  forest 

A  little  towards  the  sea, 
To  a  gentle  slope  where  they  saw  a  smoke 

By  a  great  gray  pinon  tree. 

And  around  the  tree  in  the  dances 

The  unclad  people  swung 
To  a  music  weird  and  wondrous, 

To  the  songs  that  the  maiden  sung. 

And  the  nimblest  youths  among  them, 

Most  like  young  bears  thev  were, 
Climbed  far  on  the  old  tree's  branches 

To  gather  the  brown  cones  there. 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  PINON  TREE  109 

'Twas  the  rarest  cone  for  the  fairest, 

Far  sweeter  than  all  the  rest, 
Each  tore  from  its  branch  and  tossed  it 

To  the  maid  that  he  loved  the  best. 

With  a  spring  and  a  bound  she  caught  it, 

And  smiled  on  her  heart's  desire, 
And  the  big  brown  cone  was  roasted 

Till  it  burst  its  fruit  in  the  fire. 

Till  it  burst  in  a  luscious  plenty — 

The  food  that  is  prized  of  all— 
And  the  maid  with  the  richest  pine-cone 

Is  the  queen  of  the  festival. 

So  with  games  and  the  dance  and  the  music, 

In  sight  of  the  shining  sea, 
There  was  love  of  the  wild-man's  loving 

At  the  feast  of  the  pinon  tree. 

And  the  ranchers  came  on  horseback, 

To  look  at  the  strange  wild  show, 
From  the  brown  hills  by  the  mountains, 

And  the  green  vales  down  below. 

On  their  swift  wild  horses  riding 

For  a  twenty  miles  and  more, 
With  silver  bells  on  their  bridles, 

And  their  sweethearts  on  before. 

'Twas  the  days  of  the  old  ranchero, 

Spanish,  and  rich,  and  grand, 
With  his  herds  on  a  hundred  hillsides, 

On  his  thousands  of  acres  of  land. 


110         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

So  they  came  and  sat  in  a  circle, 

On  horseback  looking  on; 
There  were  youths  and  black-eyed  maidens, 

There  were  eyes  as  brown  as  the  fawn. 

On  a  little  knoll  that  was  nearest, 

Philippo  wondering  stayed, 
As  he  gazed  on  the  whirling  dances, 

And  the  games  that  the  wild  ones  played. 

Till  a  girl  on  a  snow-white  charger 

Rode  by  in  her  loveliness— 
With  hair  as  black  as  the  midnight. 

All  down  on  her  snow-white  dress. 

And  he  saw  her,  and  loved  that  instant, 
Who  never  had  loved  till  then,— 

Felt  that  first  fire  in  his  bosom 
That  never  can  flame  again. 

If  she  only  would  look  now  towards  him, 
Would  turn  and  but  look  his  wav— 

She  would  read  in  his  eyes  the  passion, 
And  the  things  that  his  lips  would  say. 

And  the  soul  of  his  soul  said  to  him— 

There  is  never  a  spot  so  green 
That  is  worth  that  I  ever  tread  on, 

Save  the  spot  where  her  feet  have  been. 

Nor  a  bliss,  nor  a  joy,  nor  a  gladness, 
Nor  a  thing  that  a  heart  could  stir, 

Unless  the  joy,  and  the  gladness, 
Are  all  to  be  shared  by  her. 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  PINON  TREE  111 

So  he  longed  for  a  look  that  was  nearer, 

But  never  she  turned  her  face, 
Though  she  looked  at  the  dancers  dancing 

In  the  beautiful  greenwood  place. 

And  he  thought,  I  will  blow  my  bugle— 

She'll  hear  it  and  look  around; 
So  he  blew  just  a  little  love-tune, 

And  she  startled  to  hear  the  sound. 

'Twas  a  Spanish  air  of  the  old  time, 

To  pay  for  a  little  glance, 
And  she  turned  her  face  for  a  moment 

And  smiled,  as  it  were,  by  chance. 

*       *       * 

"We  will  go,"  said  the  friar,  kindly, 

"The  feast  and  the  dance  are  done, 
And  the  mission  bells  are  ringing 

For  a  good  night  to  the  sun." 

And  again  they  walked  in  the  forest— 

The  friar,  and  he,  alone, 
But  his  thoughts  went  ever  backwards 

To  the  eyes  he  would  call  his  own. 

Nor  the  strange  things  all  about  him 

Had  interest  for  him  then, 
Not  the  Indian  maids  at  their  weaving, 

Nor  the  half-tamed  Indian  men. 

Nor  the  mission  there  in  the  distance, 

With  its  walls  white  as  the  snow, 
And  the  long,  low-arched  cloisters 

Where  the  friars  loved  to  go. 


112         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Nor  the  vast  flocks  on  the  hill-sides, 
With  the  shepherds  watching  there, 

Nor  the  neophyte  processions 

On  their  way  to  the  chapel  prayer. 

Nor  the  soft  sweet  tones  of  music 

Of  the  chapel  choristers, 
Nor  the  Indians  at  the  altar  rail, 

For  his  thoughts  they  all  were  hers. 

For  a  while  in  the  cloistered  mission 

He  was  a  stranger  guest, 
But  the  thought  of  the  passing  vision 

Forever  was  in  his  breast. 

And  he  looked  at  his  silver  bugle, 
"No  more  will  I  ask  my  bread— 

At  the  kind  old  friar's  table— 
I'll  earn  it  with  this  instead. 

"At  the  guardhouse  of  the  mission, 

My  bugle  I  there  shall  blow, 
And  I'll  sound  the  call  for  the  soldiers 

At  the  old  Presidio." 

In  a  little  while,  and  the  friars 

Such  tones  from  a  bugle  heard, 
It  seemed  like  voices  chanting, 

Or  the  songs  of  the  mocking-bird. 

For  the  liquid  notes  of  the  bugle 

Such  wonderful  music  made, 
It  seemed  the  soul  of  the  music 

Was  the  soul  of  the  one  that  played. 


114         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRAXO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Yet  a  something  would  often  sadden 
The  smile  that  the  bugler  wore, 

When  he  thought  of  the  day  in  the  forest, 
And  the  face  he  might  see  no  more. 

And  he  does  not  know  while  waiting 

That  far  on  the  green  hillsides 
On  a  wild  and  snow-white  charger 

A  beautiful  maiden  rides. 

On  the  great  ranch  of  her  father. 
That  stretched  like  a  king's  domain, 

Past  the  vast  herds  on  the  hillsides, 
Past  the  great  flocks  on  the  plain. 

And  she  sometimes  thinks  of  a  lover, 

That  some  day  is  to  be, 
Who  will  come  like  a  prince  and  take  her 

To  a  beautiful  home  by  the  sea. 

But  she  oftener  thinks  of  another 

Whose  eyes  once  on  her  turned 
Till  a  thrill  went  through  her  bosom, 

And  the  blush  on  her  cheek  had  burned. 

"Corinne"-  —  ('twas  her  father  speaking), 
"In  a  month,  and  the  day  is  near, 

When  the  good  ship  will  be  sailing, 
And  the  prince  will  soon  be  here. 

"I  have  thought  all  day  of  the  promise 

To  the  best  friend  that  I  had— 
(His  only  child  was  a  bov  then— 
But  the  prettiest  little  lad), 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  PINON  TREE  115 

"That  whenever  the  time  had  ripened, — 

And  it  is  this  very  spring,— 
You  two  should  be  sworn  sweethearts, 

And  be  married  by  book  and  ring." 

*  *     * 

Still  again  she  rides  on  the  hillsides, 

Where  the  grass  with  dew  is  wet, 
And  she  thinks  again  of  the  dark  eyes, 

And  she  hears  that  bugle  yet. 

*  *     * 

At  the  old  Presidio  yonder, 

The  days  go  slow  and  long, 
But  the  bugler  sounds  his  bugle, 

And  the  hills  give  back  the  song. 

And  he  yearns  for  eyes  that  he  sees  not, 

One  look  at  a  radiant  face, 
And  he  sometimes  goes  to  that  forest 

As  it  were  to  a  trysting  place. 

But  the  cold  gray  ashes  only 

Remain  of  the  fires  that  were, 
Though  the  hot  fire  in  his  bosom 

Will  burn  forever  for  her. 

Still,  still  in  the  summer  evenings, 

His  bugle  notes  are  heard ; 
They  hear  them  out  on  the  ranches, 

And  the  rancher's  heart  is  stirred. 

And  they  ride  from  the  shining  foothills 

To  the  old  Presidio, 
Just  to  look  at  the  Spanish  soldiers 

And  to  hear  the  bugle  blow. 


116        THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

For  'twas  nothing  then  to  gallop 

A  twenty  miles  and  more, 
Just  to  dance  in  the  wild  bolero 

On  some  distant  ranchman's  floor. 

Or  to  see  the  brown-robed  fiars 
When  the  vesper  bells  would  ring, 

Or  to  hear  the  low  sweet  voices 
When  the  choristers  would  sing. 

For  the  lives  they  led  were  joyous, 

A  horse  that  almost  flew,— 
And  the  open  glade,  and  one  fair  maid, 

Were  the  greatest  joys  they  knew. 

So  it  happened  once,  when  blowing 

The  evening's  bugle  call, 
While  the  passers-by  all  listened 

To  the  echoes  rise  and  fall, 

That  Philippe  saw  below  him 

A  girl  all  loveliness— 
With  her  hair  like  the  midnight,  flowing 

And  loose  on  her  snow-white  dress. 

It  was  she,  it  was  she  the  longed-for,— 

For  a  moment  he  was  dumb 
In  the  sight  of  the  lovely  vision 

That  again  to  his  eyes  had  come. 

Again,  with  his  lips  on  the  bugle 

In  a  wonderful  melody- 
He  plays  the  strain  that  he  played  there 

On  that  day  at  the  pinon  tree. 


118         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  she  hears,  and  a  white  hand  waving 

Has  answered  the  bugle  tone — 
For  the  soul  of  the  player  playing — 

That  day  passed  into  her  own. 

So  now,  and  these  two  are  lovers, 

And  never  a  day  is  done 
But  they  think  how  a  bugle's  music 

Has  melted  their  hearts  in  one. 

• 

And  away  to  the  fields  they've  wandered, 
These  two,  where  the  blue  bells  grow, 
And  she  loves  to  hear  the  bugle 

At  the  old  Presidio. 

*     *     * 

But  the  prince,  and  his  ship — where  are  they? 

The  morrow  they're  in  the  bay, 
And  the  friars,  dressed  in  friars'  robes, 

Will  watch  for  them,  and  pray. 

While  away  on  the  hills  the  ranchmen 
Will  saddle  their  steeds  and  come, 

And  the  neophytes  at  the  mission 
Will  march  to  the  beating  drum. 

But  look!  it's  the  ship  already! 

With  colors  all  aglow 
And  Philippe's  there  with  his  bugle 

From  the  old  Presidio. 

In  a  moment  more  and  the  ship's  boat 

Has  come  close  to  the  land — 
And  the  skipper  he  sees  Philippo, 

Has  kissed  him  on  the  hand. 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  PINON  TREE  119 

And  he  calls  him  "prince,"  and  smiling 

He  gladly  would  have  him  tell 
Of  that  dark  night  at  the  seashore, 

Of  his  love — had  it  prospered  well? 

And  the  people  hear  in  gladness 

The  things  that  the  skipper  has  said, 
While  the  prince  with  the  silver  bugle 

To  the  mission  door  is  led. 

*     *     * 

'Twas  a  merry  time  that  midnight, 

In  the  mission  festal  place, 
When  the  bugler  boy  sat  gazing 

In  joy  at  his  lady's  face. 

When  he  told  her  between  the  wine  cups 

How  he'd  left  his  dear  Cadiz, 
To  see  for  himself  a  fair  one, 

That  was  destined  to  be  his. 

How,  disguised  as  a  bugler  only, 

He  had  wandered  into  the  land, 
How  a  kind  priest  found  him  sleeping 

With  his  bugle  in  his  hand. 

How  the  day,  almost,  that  he  landed, 

To  the  pinon  tree  he  came, 
And  the  sight  of  a  lovely  vision 

Had  set  his  soul  aflame. 

How  the  errand  that  brought  him  hither, 

And  the  face  he  had  come  to  see, 
Were  all  forgot  that  morning 

At  the  feast  of  the  pinon  tree. 


120 


THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRAXO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


How  a  wonderful  fate  was  with  him, 
And  a  new  joy  to  him  came, 

For  lo!  the  face  he  had  sought  for 
And  her  own  face  was  the  same. 

And  he  touched  his  glass  to  the  fair  one, 
And  he  saw  in  her  eyes  the  glance, 

The  same  soft  look  and  tender, 

That  he  saw  that  day   at  the  dance. 


*     * 


In  a  castle  at  lovely  Cadiz, 
O'erhung  with  roses  and  moss. 

There's  a  beautiful  silver  bugle 
With  the  wings  of  an  albatross. 

And  a  lady  in  dreams  there  hears  it, 
As  plain  as  plain  can  be— 

In  the  same  love-tune  that  won  her, 
That  day  by  the  pinon  tree. 


AT  SAN   DIEGO 


At  San  Diego 

I  hear  the  bells,  the  mission  bells 

Of  San  Diego  town; 
Across  the  bay  the  echo  swells, 

And  over  the  hills  so  brown, 
And  into  the  valleys  and  canyons  deep, 

When  the  sun  is  going  down. 

I  think  I  hear  the  friars  still, 

The  saintly  priests  of  Spain, 
Come  down  the  valley  and  round  the  hill, 

From  the  mission  walls  again; 
And  I  hear  them  chant  as  they  used  to  chant, 

To  the  mission  bells'  refrain. 

I  see  the  palm  tree's  stately  head 

Beside  the  mission  wall, 
The  bending  stream  by  mountains  fed, 

The  canyon  deep,  the  waterfall, 
And  hill,  and  palm,  and  valley  fair, 

And  God's  own  mountains  watching  all. 

And  San  Miguel  lifts  high  his  dome 

Far  over  rock  and  tree, 
The  wild  deer  and  the  eagle's  home, 

The  mountains  at  his  knee, 
While  Loma  bathes  his  rocky  breast 

Deep  in  the  western  sea. 

I  see  the  ships,  the  Spanish  ships, 

Ride  in  the  western  bay, 
Where  safe  at  last  from  wind  and  gale 

The  pride  of  sea  kings  lay. 
And  the  friars  see  them,  and  think  of  home, 

As  they  cross  themselves  and  pray. 


124         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  far  along  the  valley's  sweep 

I  hear  the  vesper  chime, 
And  out  of  canyons  dark  and  deep 

Comes  back  the  mystic  rhyme ; 
And  not  a  soul  but  prayeth  there, 

For  it  is  holy  time. 

Gone  are  the  halls  where  long  ago 

There  dwelt  that  brotherhood, 
And  bare  brown  walls  and  arches  low 

Mark  where  the  mission  stood, 
And  the  moping  owl  makes  there  his  home, 

Where  he  feedeth  his  hungry  brood. 

Miguel  still  lifts  his  lofty  head 

Above  the  mountains  gray. 
And  Loma  Point  still  makes  his  bed 

Far  in  the  western  bay; 
But  the  times  are  changed,  and  the  days  are  dead, 

And  the  friars — where  are  they? 

Changed,  changed  is  all  save  yonder  sea, 

And  yonder  mountains  brown, 
The  breakers'  deep-toned  symphony 

When  the  tide  is  going  down, 
And  the  voices  of  the  mission  bells 

Of  San  Diego  town. 


IN  ARCADIA 
A  LEGEND  OF  SAN  LUIS  REY 


"It  seemed  to  us  from  the  ship,  that  this 
was  some  new  Arcadia,  so  joyous  the  peo 
ple  seemed,  and  care-free." — Spanish  Diary. 


In  Arcadia — A  Legend  of  San  Luis  Rey 

NOTE — San  Luis  Rey — Name  of  one  of  the  loveliest  and  most  prosperous  missions 
of  the  Spanish  days  of  California.  It  was  named  for  Louis  the  9th,  the  French  Cru 
sader.  It  is  situated  among  the  beautiful  hills  five  miles  back  from  Oceanside,  45 
miles  north  of  San  Diego.  It  is  one  of  the  few  missions  that  is  now  something  more 
than  ruins. 

Life  at  San  Luis  Rey — as  at  all  the  missions  in  the  days  of  the  friars — was  pious, 
self-sacrificing,  and  strenuous;  devoted  wholly  to  converting  and  training  the  Indians* 

Away  from  the  missions,  everybody  seems  to  have  lived  only  for  a  good  time — 
ease,  idleness,  enjoyment,  excitement  and  amusement  in  a  semi-barbaric  way.  That 
was  life  to  them.  In  a  sense  it  was  half  Arcadian,  and  will  never  be  seen  again. 

Edwin  Markham,  the  poet,  in  his  California  history  asks:  "Had  there  ever 
before  been  such  an  epoch  as  that  since  the  light  of  the  golden  age  faded  from  the 
hills  and  the  valleys  of  the  earth?" 

There  is  a  land — who  has  not  heard  of  it?— 

Where  shines  the  sun  all  the  sweet  seasons  through; 

There  is  no  winter  there;  the  mountains  sit 
Forever  gazing  on  the  ocean's  blue, 
In  silence  gazing  in  their  purple  hue, 

As  if  they'd  hear  the  sea-tides  come  and  go 

Across  the  sands  a  thousand  feet  below. 

Far  in  the  West  that  lovely  country  is, 
Where  the  Sierras  stretch  their  tops  along, 

Where  mocking-birds  in  ecstacy  of  bliss, 
By  night  or  day,  in  many  a  happv  throng, 
Delight  the  soul  with  melody  and  song— 

The  lark  itself  might  stop  its  flight  to  hear 

Its  song  re-echoed  in  a  voice  so  dear. 

The  golden  years  pass  swiftly  in  that  clime, 
As  once  they  passed  in  davs  now  far  away, 

And  singers  sing  about  that  olden  time 
When  like  a  dream  the  land  in  quiet  lay, 
And  love  and  beauty  had  their  happy  day, 

And  no  one  thought  of  how  things  came  or  went, 

In  the  old  days,  for  all  men  were  content. 


128         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Of  days  like  these  the  story  I  would  tell, 
Yon  Spanish  days,  by  the  Pacific  shore, 

When  on  the  land  and  on  the  people  fell 
A  love  for  joyance,  as  in  time  of  yore, 
A  love  of  joyance  never  known  before ; 

Whatever  came,  they  took  what  heaven  sent 

In  the  old  days  when  all  men  were  content. 


Imagine  then  a  hundred  years  have  gone, 
And  Spanish  Dons  are  rulers  on  the  coast, 

Whose  vast  domains  for  leagues  stretch  on  and  on 
Where  wander  herds  and  flocks  a  mighty  host; 
Towns  there  were  none,  or  very  few  at  most. 

But  here  and  there  a  grand  old  mission  stood 
Whose  very  ruins  yet  should  be  our  pride; 

Half  church,  half  castle,  in  their  solitude, 

They  were  as  landmarks  all  the  country  wide, 
Where  friars  told  of  Him  the  crucified. 

An  old-time  highway  stretched  along  the  coast, 
The  Royal  Road,  they  often  call  it  yet; 

A  mountain  pass  it  often  was  at  most, 

Where  the  lone  seashore  and  the  mountain  met; 
And  there  it  was  the  mission  homes  were  set. 

A  long  day's  journey  lay  from  each  to  each, 
Of  these  God's  houses  in  the  solitude, 

And  travelers  glad  the  kindly  homes  to  reach, 
Found  rest  and  friends  where'er  a  mission  stood- 
And  no  one  paid  for  lodgment  or  for  food. 

Just  their  companionship,  that  was  enough; 

And  many  a  time,  as 't  were  some  country  inn, 
With  night  all  dark,  and  winds  a  little  rough, 


IN  ARCADIA  129 

By  a  bright  fire  they  shortly  would  begin 
Some  tales  to  tell  of  strange  things  they  had  seen. 

Thus  on  a  night  at  old  San  Luis  Rey, 
Back  from  the  sea  it  stands,  a  league  or  so, 

Some  travelers  weary  with  the  burning  day 
Passed  round  the  cup  to  make  the  hours  go, 
Though  'twas  the  time  when  cocks  begin  to  crow. 

When  most  had  given  their  stories,  or  a  song, 
Had  wakened  hearts  as  by  some  magic  spell, 

One  who  was  silent  all  the  evening  long, 
Spoke  up  and  said:   "I  have  a  tale  to  tell 
That  near  this  house  once  on  a  time  befell." 

Strange  as  it  seems  of  that  night's  company, 
And  its  strange  tales,  I  but  remember  his; 

And  hard  the  task  likely  enough  for  me 
To  give  it  here,  nor  give  one  thing  amiss, 
For  of  all  arts  the  hardest  one  is  this. 

A  clapping  hands,  a  filling  up  the  bowl- 
Each  listener's  eyes  the  strange  narrator  scan, 

A  little  cough  to  emphasize  the  whole, 
A  sup  or  two,  and  then  the  tale  began; 
And  memory  says,  that  thus  the  story  ran. 


THE  STORY 

It  happened  once,  yet  not  so  long  ago, 
A  Spanish  noble  lived  within  this  land— 

And  rich  he  was  with  woolly  flocks,  and  lo, 

His  acres  stretched  from  mountains  to  the  strand; 
And  herds  he  had,  and  serfs  on  every  hand. 


130         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANTO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

For  half  the  Indians  in  the  mountains  then 
Were  tamed  to  servitude,  and  gladly  thought 

It  some  great  honor  just  to  serve  such  men ; 
So  all  the  labor  of  his  fields  they  wrought, 
And  watched  the  herds  that  mountain  lions  sought. 

His  house  was  such  as  rich  hidalgos  knew— 

Built  of  adobe,  round  an  open  square, 
With  long  arched  corridors,  that  opened  to 

Low  rooms  as  dark  as  prisons  often  were; 

Its  gates  and  walls  had  an  old  Moorish  air. 

Inside  the  square,  a  cooling  fountain  played 

Where  pigeons  washed  their  plumage  at  the  noon, 

And  lilies,  white  as  wings  of  angels,  made 
Obeisance  to  the  plashing  water's  tune 
That  rose  and  fell  in  the  sweet  winds  of  June. 

"Not  very  grand  his  house,"  one  might  have  said; 
Yet  grand  enough  there  in  the  vale  alone— 

The  low-built  walls,  the  red-tiled  roof  had  made 
A  kind  of  splendor  all  its  very  own, 
And  such  as  fit  this  half-way  tropic  zone. 

Around  the  place  a  hundred  live  oaks  stood, 
And  holly  trees,  too,  scattered  all  the  way, 

And  southern  palms  their  fronds  just  trembling  shook 
In  the  soft  breeze  that  seemed  a  sea-born  lay 
Blown  from  the  waters  of  the  shining  bay. 

In  easy  idleness  their  days  were  spent 
Who  lived  in  that  fair  valley  by  the  sea; 

As  in  a  dream  the  seasons  came  and  went. 
Not  much  they  knew  of  toil  or  industry, 
Their  herds  brought  wealth — if  wealth  there  need 
to  be. 


IN  ARCADIA  131 

The  dance,  the  race,  the  bull-fight's  bloody  rings 
Made  fierce  enjoyment  for  them  every  one; 

They  loved  a  horse  above  all  other  things, 
And  fleeter  ones  were  not  beneath  the  sun — 
And  great  was  he  who  rode  the  swiftest  one. 

They  were  like  birds  that  spring  from  bough  to  bough, 
Scarce  knowing  where  tomorrow's  bread  should  be — 

Asking  of  earth  enough  just  for  the  now, 
So  they  had  dance,  and  joyous  revelry, 
And  their  bright  skies  and  music's  melody. 

The  soft  guitars  and  flutes,  were  they  not  more 
Than  piled-up  gold,  or  ships  or  anything— 

Could  not  one  night  beside  the  ocean's  shore 
To  simple  lives  a  greater  rapture  bring 
With  dancing  girls  and  mocking  birds  to  sing? 

Nor  use  had  they  for  very  much  of  gold, 

Though  their  attire  was  splendid  every  way; 

The  passing  ships  brought  riches  most  untold, 
Silks  from  Japan  and  jewels  from  Cathay, 
And  pearls  they  had  from  their  own  shining  bay. 

And  so  it  was  from  many  a  rude  abode 

Stepped  stately  girls,  dressed  as  for  carnival — 

Red-vested  gallants  to  their  sweethearts  rode 
In  velvet  gear,  all  golden  laced,  as  well, 
While  gay  serapas  round  their  shoulders  fell. 

No  coming  ship  from  Spain,  or  anywhere, 
But  gladly  traded  for  the  rancher's  stuff; 

Shiploads  of  hides,  and  tallow,  sold  them  there, 

Were  thrown  by  Indians  down  the  deep  sea  bluff — 
The  slaughtered  herds  gave  for  such  trade  enough. 


IN  ARCADIA  133 

Nature,  to  them,  a  wondrous  bounty  gave; 

She  fed  their  flocks  as  from  a  boundless  store; 
No  fruit  or  flower  the  heart  might  ever  crave 

But  shed  abundance  on  their  lovely  shore; 

They  had  content,  and  no  one  asked  for  more. 

They  had  the  mountains  and  the  shining  sea, 
And  the  lone  desert,  calling  to  them  there, 

Strange  as  is  death  in  its  great  mystery; 
These,  and  the  skies  they  had,  forever  fair; 
To  gaze  on  them  itself  was  most  a  prayer. 

In  scenes  like  these  Antonio  passed  his  days, 
From  his  own  acres  scarce  he  need  to  ride; 

Mountains  and  lake,  and  valleys  most  were  his — 
Ten  leagues  in  length  and  half  as  many  wide 
Roamed  his  great  herds  from  sea  to  mountain  side. 

Well,  there  he  lived,  this  Spanish  nobleman, 
One  son  he  had,  a  handsome  cavalier— 

At  rout  or  dance  he  was  the  noticed  one, 
There  was  no  one  quite  like  him  anywhere 
At  all  the  ranches,  were  they  far  or  near. 

There  was  no  knight  so  very  debonair 

Towards  every  one  of  all  fair  womankind; 

Yet  no  one  face  to  him  had  been  so  fair 
But  half  disdain  was  oftenest  in  his  mind; 
And  one  to  love  he  had  not  cared  to  find. 

Love's  roses  oft  were  scattered  at  his  feet; 

Too  oft  he'd  seen  them  bud  and  bloom  and  fade, 

Ever  to  think  of  love  that  was  complete — 
Such  as  sometimes  a  holy  incense  made 
When  it  and  life  were  on  the  altar  laid. 


134         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Sometimes  he  wondered  much  if  love  could  bring 
Delights  for  which  he  never  yet  had  yearned, 

Or  was  it  but  some  very  painful  thing, 

Some  fitful  fire  that  but  a  moment  burned 
And  then  went  out  or  into  ashes  turned! 

Then  woman's  love;  was  it  not  but  a  whim 
To  be  admired?  that  was  her  only  cue— 

And  failing  this  she  is  quick  done  with  him 
Who  fondly,  blindly  has  a  heart  to  woo, 
And  kneels  before  her  as  mad  lovers  do. 

Though  to  all  love  he  was  indifferent, 
Yet  loved  he  Beauty  for  its  sake  alone; 

For  well  he  knew  the  gods  to  Beauty  lent 
A  something  greater  than  of  king  or  throne, 
A  gift  as  great  as  was  their  very  own. 

Yet  one  thing  still,  he  never  yet  had  known, 

Or  knowing  half,  had  lost  it,  to  begin- 
That  Beauty's  charms,  though  wonderful  to  own, 
And  conqueror,  most,  it  ever  yet  hath  been— 
Yet  Love's  a  thing  that's  harder  yet  to  win. 

Much  had  he  read  of  lovers,  and  their  pain; 
Were  not  the  books  writ  full  of  things  so  drear, 

Of  lovers  scorned,  who  in  the  sea  would  fain 
Forget  the  faces  they  had  held  so  dear, 
And  every  hope  they  ever  yet  had  here? 

Had  he  not  heard  the  wisest  sometimes  say: 
"In  all  your  giving,  be  it  less  or  more, 

Give  anything,  but  not  your  heart  away, 
Nor  keep  for  love  too  much  an  open  door — 
Lest  grief  come  in  where  joy  had  been  before." 


IN  ARCADIA  135 

Perhaps  too  much  of  the  sweet  world  he'd  had — 
Too  many  smiles  from  women  much  to  care 

If  anything  could  make  him  very  glad, 
Or  even  sorrowful,  such  men  there  are, 
Made  so  by  fate,  or  some  unlucky  star. 

But  once,  while  riding  by  the  ocean  side, 

His  thoughts  on  races  that  his  horse  had  won, 

A  beauteous  thing  upon  the  sand  he  spied, 
And  caught  it  quickly  as  he  galloped  on; 
They  could  do  that,  in  the  bright  days  agone. 

It  was  a  belt  of  silk  and  filigree, 

And  six  white  pearls  shone  on  it  side  by  side; 

And  close  to  these,  two  black  pearls  did  he  see; 
Amazed  he  was,  and  saw  them  wonder-eyed: 
"Some  fair  one's  pearls,"  he  thought,  "some  woman's 
pride." 

And  she  whose  form  such  a  fair  thing  had  worn, 
She  must  herself  be  beauteous  to  behold— 

And  long  he  looked  at  it,  almost  forlorn, 
Thinking  what  loveliness  it  did  enfold, 
And  could  it  speak,  what  romance  had  it  told. 

He  held  it  long  and  all  caressingly 

Gazed  on  its  pearls,  so  beautifully  set; 

Had  he  not  read,  in  some  book  over  sea: 

"Who  finds  a  pearl  makes  Cupid  in  his  debt!" 
And  these  black  pearls  were  ten  times  rarer  yet. 

Once  too  he'd  read:  "Who  finds  a  precious  thing 
And  places  it  that  very  self-same  night 

Beneath  his  head,  the  moon  all  shimmering, 
And  the  Great  Bear  shining  full  and  bright- 
Will  see  a  face  of  very  great  delight." 


136         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

As  did  his  race,  so  too  Luigi  did— 

Thought  much  of  dreams  and  omens  read  aright- 

A  lure  there  seemed  for  all  things  deeply  hid— 
And  most  for  things  seen  in  the  pale  moonlight, 
Or  when  gray  owls  were  hooting  in  the  night. 

So  on  that  evening  he  could  scarcely  wait 
Until  the  stars  began  their  watch  to  keep, 

Or  yonder  moon  shone  on  his  father's  gate 

Where  soft  the  night-winds  had  begun  to  sweep, 
Till  deep  he  fell  in  a  delicious  sleep. 

He  had  but  slept  a  little  hour  or  so, 

When,  in  his  dreams,  a  gentle  noise  he  heard 

Like  rustling  leaves  when  gentle  breezes  blow, 
Or  moving  wings  of  some  most  lovely  bird 
Or  silken  skirts  now  coming  hitherward. 

That  instant  there  a  lovely  vision  stood 
Close  by  his  bed,  bidding  him  rise  and  go 

On  a  great  quest,  by  town,  or  field,  or  wood, 
And  find  that  maid  whose  belt  it  was,  for  lo! 
Her  like  in  loveliness  one  could  not  know. 

"Give  her  the  belt  as  the  most  beauteous  one 
Of  womankind,  or  here  or  anywhere— 

For  not  beneath  the  moon,  or  any  sun, 

Wherever  loved  and  beauteous  women  are, 
Is  one  so  radiant,  so  divinely  fair." 

He  took  his  dream  as  'twere  a  great  command 
That  he  should  go  and  seek  her  everywhere, 

And  know  at  last  if  in  that  happy  land, 

Where  beauty  languished  in  the  amorous  air, 
There  really  was  a  face  so  wondrous  fair. 


IN  ARCADIA  137 

So  deep  impressed  with  that  thing  of  his  dream 
His  life  all  suddenly  a  change  took  on, 

Some  moving  hand  mysteriously  would  seem 
To  beckon  him  that  moment  to  be  gone, 
Nor  scarcely  wait  the  coming  of  the  dawn. 

If  so  indeed  she  the  most  lovely  is 

Of  all  the  fair  in  this  land  east  or  west, 
I  would  pursue  it  were  it  but  for  this— 

For  beauty's  sake — nor  weary  in  the  quest 

To  see  a  face  that's  so  divinely  blest. 

It  was  the  May,  the  month  of  hearts'  desire, 
And  sapphire  skies  were  bending  overhead, 

The  far-off  fields  with  color  seemed  on  fire, 
The  dear  wild  rose  a  wondrous  odor  shed, 
And  rosewood  blooms  the  ground  had  carpeted. 

Arrayed  in  costume  of  those  days  agone, 

On  such  a  morn  Luigi  mounted  steed, 
And  the  glad  journey  bravely  started  on — 

Not  caring  much  to  where  it  yet  might  lead— 

If  at  the  last  it  only  should  succeed. 

Strange  things  he  saw  now  in  his  journeying 
Of  those  old  times  and  of  the  people's  ways; 

Still  here  with  us  oft  remnants  of  them  cling— 
Telling  strange  things  of  yonder  Spanish  days, 
Though  age  has  dimmed  them  in  a  misty  haze. 

Each  day  he  traveled  on  his  wondrous  quest, 
The  more  he  saw  the  land's  simplicity— 

A  pastoral  folk,  with  just  sweet  plenty  blest— 
In  flocks  and  herds  their  riches  seemed  to  be. 
And  lands  that  stretched  from  mountains  to  the  sea. 


138         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  with  it  all,  soft  music  everywhere 

Touched  every  heart  and  warmed  a  simple  life; 

That,  and  the  dance,  oft  in  the  open  air, 
Not  to  loud  drums  and  soldier  thrilling  fife, 
But  soft  guitars  that  never  breathed  of  strife. 

To  such  a  scene  Luigi  first  of  all 

Reigned  his  wild  stallion  to  a  rancho,  where 
That  night  they  danced  a  summer's  festival, 

Beneath  an  arbor  in  the  open  air; 

What  if,  he  thought,  should  she  be  dancing  there. 

For  true  it  was  that  all  the  country  round, 
Nor  mattered  it  how  very  far  the  place, 

On  their  wild  steeds  by  road  or  trail  they'd  bound 
The  night's  fandango  with  themselves  to  grace 
With  twinkling  feet  and  many  a  beauteous  face. 

There  where  the  candles  and  bright  torches  shone 
In  the  rude  wigwam  made  with  reed  and  pole, 

Where  swift  young  feet  in  joyous  dance  went  on, 
And  coal-black  eyes  to  other  black  eyes  stole, 
Life's  simplest  joys  delighted  every  soul. 

And  while  the  moon  climbs  upward  to  the  sky 
A  hundred  gallants  yonder  swiftly  ride 

To  see  the  revelers  gladly  dancing  by, 
And  'round  the  dancers  in  a  circle  bide; 
Luigi,  too,  is  looking  wonder-eyed. 

And  once,  as  other  lookers-on  had  done, 
He  leaves  his  horse  and  to  the  dancers  flies, 

Grasps  some  fair  girl,  and,  laughing,  both  are  gone 
In  the  swift  maze  of  dancing  ecstacies; 
Nor  was  harm  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  this. 


140         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRAXO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

But  not  the  eyes  of  which  his  dream  did  tell, 
Among  the  dancers  did  that  night  he  see; 

She  who  should  cast  about  his  soul  a  spell 
Must  fairer  seem  than  any  there  could  be- 
Though  all  were  fair  in  that  night's  company. 

Now  other  days  he  wandered  near  and  far— 
Oft  to  great  ranches  in  some  mountain  place, 

Whose  girls  so  often  very  beauteous  are- 
Forever  hoping  there  to  find  a  trace 
Of  what  must  be  so  heavenly  a  face. 

For  wondrous  strange  since  that  night  of  his  dream 
Not  a  mere  vision  was  he  chasing  now, 

But  a  reality  her  face  did  seem 

To  his  mind's  eye  and  every  day  somehow 
A  newer  beauty  touched  her  cheek  and  brow. 

Till  now  at  last  his  mind  was  so  intent 

On  things  that  (save  in  dreams)  had  never  been — 

On  the  fair  errand  that  he  gladly  went— 

By  skies  of  blue  and  meadows  sweetly  green, 
He  loved  a  face  that  he  had  never  seen. 

Now  oftentimes  at  some  great  house,  whose  door 
Stood  ever  open  for  the  stranger  guest, 

He  stopped  for  days,  it  might  be  even  more, 
As  was  the  custom,  and  the  house's  best 
And  all  there  was,  was  on  the  stranger  pressed. 

'Twas  like  an  inn,  made  free  to  every  one- 
No  door  was  locked  by  either  night  or  day; 

A  ranchman's  heart  was  very  easy  won, 
No  thought  of  recompense  or  any  pay— 
"Welcome,  come  in,"  were  the  first  words  he'd  say. 


IN  ARCADIA  141 

"Take  of  our  best;  yours  is  the  house  tonight, 
Tomorrow,  too;"  and  when  the  guest  arose, 

Some  silver  pieces  sure  would  lay  in  sight 
To  use  if  needed  when  the  stranger  goes; 
Such  hospitality  the  rancher  shows. 

His  hundred  horses  fed  upon  the  plain, 
Who  needed  one  but  left  his  own,  and  so 

Took  one  more  fresh,  and  galloped  on  again, 
Nor  questions  asked  if  it  were  his  or  no- 
Such  things  were  customs  in  that  long  ago. 

Once  Luigi  saw  a  village  near, 

And  crowds  of  people  in  the  plaza  were, 

To  see  a  spectacle  to  them  most  dear: 
A  wild  bull  battling  with  a  grizzly  bear 
As  shouts  for  either  rended  all  the  air. 

And  at  this  scene  were  beauties  looking  on, 
Dark-eyed  and  wonderful,  with  midnight  hair; 

But  were  they  beautiful  as  is  the  dawn 
Luigi  had  not  found  them  half  so  fair 
As  that  dreamed  beauty  he  was  hunting  there. 

Nor  at  the  races  was  there  any  one 

Like  her  he  thought  of  on  his  lonesome  ride; 

Pale  as  the  moonlight  is  beside  the  sun, 
So  were  these  girls  in  beauty,  side  by  side, 
With  that  fair  one  that  he  now  deified. 

Now  other  days  have  swiftly  come  and  gone, 
And  other  scenes  Luigi  visited— 

Go  where  he  would,  he  could  not  find  that  one 
Who  here  and  there  like  a  sweet  phantom  led — 
Whose  dreamed  of  face  he  blindly  worshiped. 


142         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Yet,  oftentimes  when  riding  on  the  way, 

A  shadowy  presence  seemed  with  him  to  ride ; 

'Twras  love  a-borning  all  the  happy  day, 
Then  all  he  saw  by  him  was  beautified— 
Yet  knew  he  not  that  love  was  at  his  side. 

Sometimes  a  smile,  a  pretty  woman's  face 
Would  touch  his  heart  a  little,  not  for  long — 

She  of  his  dreams  would  quickly  take  her  place- 
Then  he  would  hum  this  pretty  little  song, 
Made  up  that  morning  as  he  rode  along: 

"How  sweet  is  love — how  very  dear  love  is. 
Words  were  not  made  to  tell  of  it  at  all ; 

Eyes  only  tell  of  love's  enraptured  bliss, 
Eyes  only  answer  to  love's  dearest  call, 
'Tis  eyes  alone  that  keepeth  love  in  thrall. 

How  sweet  love  is,  O  very  sweet  love  is, 

Though  like  the  rose,  it  fadeth  at  the  dawn — 

So  be  it,  yet  I  dearly  would  have  this, 
The  first  red  rose  upon  the  garden  lawn, 
And  love's  first  kiss,  however  quickly  gone." 

And  now  and  then  it  seemed  a  phantom  chase — 
Hoping  such  beauty  in  this  world  to  find; 

He  had  gone  far,  and  not  the  simplest  trace 
Of  one  so  fair  as  this  one  in  his  mind 
For  whom  he  now  so  many  days  had  pined. 

Once  to  the  desert's  very  edge  he  went, 
Hoping  at  last  some  trace  of  her  to  see 

At  some  far  ranch,  or  maybe  shepherd's  tent; 
Or,  living  like  some  wood  divinity— 
If  anything  so  strange  as  that  could  be. 


IN  ARCADIA  143 

There  on  the  height  of  a  tall  cliff  he  stood, 
When  fell  the  starlight  on  the  wide  expanse, 

Before  him  lay  the  sandy  solitude 

Like  a  vast  ocean  in  a  sleeping  trance, 

On  whose  smooth  floor  the  Tritons  used  to  dance. 

He  saw  the  weird  and  everlasting  plain, 

The  ghostly  sage  brush  in  its  gown  of  gray, 

The  full  white  moon  and  all  its  starry  train, 

Walk  through  the  heavens  on  their  shining  way — 
But  that  he  sought,  he  found  not,  night  nor  day. 

Most,  now,  it  seemed,  he  should  not  further  chase 
The  strange  illusion  of  a  fleeting  dream, 

Beyond  the  desert  there  could  be  no  face, 
Fair  though  it  were,  and  beautiful  did  seem, 
Like  this  he  sought  whose  beauty  was  supreme. 

"I  will  go  back  to  my  old  home  again," 
He  said  at  last,  "and  wander  by  the  sea, 

There  where  the  pearls  on  the  bright  sand  had  lain, 
Perhaps  in  sleep  my  dream  comes  back  to  me, 
And  plainer  then  the  vision  now  will  be." 

Again  the  moonlight's  on  his  father's  gate, 
Again  the  stars  are  sliding  down  the  sky, 

In  vain  he  seeks  some  sign  of  hope  or  fate, 
And  though  he  sleep  no  bright  face  passes  by, 

No  dream  at  all  to  tell  if  she  is  nigh. 

***** 

Still,  when  the  dawn  comes  slowly  peeping  in, 

Again  he  rides  along  the  sandy  shore, 
Hoping  at  last  some  little  sight  to  win, 

Some  word,  some  look,  a  glance,  if  nothing  more, 

Ere  hope  itself  forever  close  the  door. 


144         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Fair  was  the  morn  on  yonder  king's  highway, 
The  old-time  trail  that  by  the  ocean  led, 

Where  sandaled  friars  many  a  weary  day 
With  seas  below  and  blue  skies  overhead, 
Trudged  the  long  way  and  pater  nosters  said. 

Now,  too,  the  lark  in  yonder  meadow's  heard, 
The  sea  itself  has  music  in  its  moan; 

All  seems  so  dear,  once  more  his  heart  is  stirred; 
Alone  he  rides,  and  yet  is  not  alone, 
For  yonder  dream  has  never  from  him  gone. 

Now  here  and  there  a  brown-robed  traveler 
Walks  by  his  side,  and  keeps  him  company— 

And  gallant  youths,  as  in  those  days  there  were— 
Sometimes  o'ertook  him  by  the  shining  sea— 
Nor  any  guessed  what  his  great  quest  might  be. 

Once  as  the  shades  of  evening  gathered  'round, 
They  heard  the  bells  of  old  San  Luis  Rey— 

Rejoiced  they  hear  the  ever-welcoming  sound; 
They  looked  and  saw  the  hills  back  from  the  bay, 
And  in  their  midst  the  white  walled  mission  lay. 

Not  in  the  land  was  there  a  lovelier  scene 
Than  yonder  valley  and  its  wand'ring  stream, 

The  purpling  hills,  the  mission  in  between, 
The  pastoral  silence  and  the  ocean's  gleam; 
To  them  it  seemed  a  beauteous  summer  dream. 

On  yonder  walls  they  see  the  sentinels 

Who  watch  the  sea  if  foemen  might  appear — 

For  quick  a  flag  to  the  near  mountain  tells 
If  pirate  ships  again  are  coming  near, 
Or  are  they  friends  who  seek  the  mission's  cheer? 


IN  ARCADIA  145 

And  now  the  great  gate  for  them  open  swings, 
And  they  are  welcomed  by  the  friars  there; 

A  troop  of  neophytes  in  chorus  sings; 

They  hear  the  brotherhood  in  song  and  prayer; 
Again  the  Angelus  sounds  on  the  air. 

The  busy  labors  of  the  day  are  done, 
'Twas  like  a  bee-hive  but  an  hour  ago; 

The  looms,  the  forge,  are  resting,  every  one. 
A  thousand  neophytes  with  voices  low 
Give  praise  for  life  and  everything  below. 

Now  night  is  on,  and  darkness  has  come  in; 

About  the  fireside  travelers  gather  'round, 
And  soon  the  tales  and  merriment  begin; 

Nor  at  some  inn  were  happier  people  found; 

Who  has  a  tale — to  tell  it,  will  be  bound. 

Now  is  there  none  or  any  in  that  hall 
Of  travelers  down  the  El  Camino  way, 

Like  to  Luigi,  young,  and  fair  and  tall, 
A  likelier  youth  there  was  not  in  his  day, 
Go  where  one  might  from  mountains  to  the  bay. 

"Take  thou  this  seat,"  the  friar  smiling  said, 
"At  my  right  hand,"  for  well  the  friar  guessed 

Something  uncommon  this  one  here  had  led— 
He  was  so  handsome,  and  so  nobly  dressed— 
And  then,  withal,  he  seemed  to  like  him  best. 

Round  went  the  cup  in  joy  and  merriment, 

And  tales  were  told  till  half  the  night  was  gone, 

And  no  one  cared  how  many  hours  were  spent, 
Or  if  the  daylight  might  be  coming  on, 
And  hills  be  streaked  with  glory  of  the  dawn. 


IN  ARCADIA  147 

Right  busy  they  were  who  served  the  bread  and  wine, 
The  men  and  maids  in  plain  and  homespun  dress, 

And  one  there  serves,  it  is  a  face  divine- 
Few  seeing  her  had  called  her  any  less— 
So  fair  she  was  in  perfect  loveliness. 

Once  passing  near  to  young  Luigi's  seat, 
Filling  the  cups  with  nectar  of  the  land, 

One  little  moment  and  their  eyes  did  meet 
When  as  by  accident  she  touched  his  hand — 
Then  came  a  thrill  that  love  could  understand. 

For  there  beside  him  in  low-serving  gown, 
Stood  one,  the  loveliest  his  eyes  had  seen ; 

In  one  black  braid  her  lovely  hair  hung  down, 
So  soft  her  eyes,  so  lovingly  her  mein— 
Hebe  herself  had  not  more  lovely  been. 

That  instant  and  his  dream  flashed  through  his  mind, 
The  fairies'  words,  how  a  fair  face  he'd  see 

If  ever  she  who'd  lost  the  belt  he'd  find; 
But  here  was  one  as  fair,  perhaps,  as  she- 
Lovelier  than  this,  he  knew  there  could  not  be. 

And  anyway,  the  face  he  had  pursued 
Had  it  not  simply  led  him  on  and  on, 

As  'twere  a  phantom  he  had  madly  wooed, 
And  never  once  had  any  nearer  won— 
Till  now  all  thought  of  seeing  her  was  gone! 

In  that  quick  instant  of  their  meeting  there, 
Luigi  knew  and  this  one  knew  as  well— 

A  shaft  was  sped  as  from  the  viewless  air— 
If  good  or  ill,  the  gods  alone  could  tell; 
Yet  two  lives  changed  in  that  sweet  moment's  spell. 


148         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRAXO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

There  is  a  sign  that  telleth  of  deep  love, 
It's  only  speech,  a  look,  a  breath,  a  sigh, 

No  stars  need  drop  from  out  the  heavens  above, 
To  tell  if  love  is  somewhere  passing  by— 
Luigi  knew,  nor  asked  he  how  nor  why. 

A  little  while  the  dawn  came  passing  on, 

Streaking  the  hills  with  crimson  and  with  gold, 

"The  Angelus"  had  rung  an  hour  agone 
And  travelers  left  the  kindly  mission  fold 
With  thrilling  memories  of  the  stories  told. 

Then  in  a  while  another  morning  came, 

And  these  two  walked  together  hand  in  hand, 

Again  the  hills  in  crimson  were  aflame, 
A  gentle  Seabreeze  swept  the  happy  land, 
And  burning  love  by  burning  love  was  fanned. 

Yet  was  there  something  half  uncertain  seen 
In  her  dear  eyes,  an  almost  doubtful  glow, 

Half  hidden  thoughts,  whatever  they  might  mean, 
She  did  not  tell — Luigi  did  not  know. 
Hearts  may  have  depths  that  stay  unsounded  so. 

Then  by  a  cliff  that  looked  down  on  the  sea, 
He  told  the  story  of  his  quest  for  one— 

A  maid  most  beautiful  of  all,  and  she 

With  her  sweet  beauty,  the  glad  prize  had  won 
There  at  the  mission  now  three  nights  agone. 

With  that  he  drew  from  out  its  hidden  place 
The  shining  belt,  and  pearls  all  radiant; 

A  sudden  gladness  swept  across  her  face— 

"Oh!  it  is  mine,  the  gods  my  pearls  have  sent, 
Lost  on  that  night  that  to  the  dance  I  went." 


IN  ARCADIA  149 

Then  half  in  woe  her  own  sad  tale  she  told 

Of  a  ship  wrecked  upon  this  very  shore- 
How,  as  a  child,  a  year  or  two  years  old, 

Brave  men  had  saved  her  from  the  ocean's  roar 
And  left  her  dying  at  yon  mission  door. 

From  old  Cadiz  she  and  her  mother  sailed 
On  a  fair  ship  bound  for  this  sunny  land; 

Once  on  the  way  they  were  by  pirates  hailed, 
And  once  were  wrecked  with  never  help  at  hand, 
And  most  were  lost  upon  this  very  strand. 

"Left  so  a  waif,  my  mother  lost  and  gone, 

None  knew  my  birth,  my  name,  nor  anything — 

Laurita,  so  they  called  me,  so  I'm  known, 
They  say  I'm  twenty  just  this  very  spring- 
So  swift  a  pace  the  years  go  traveling. 

That  sad  strange  morning  that  they  took  me  there 
The  friars  found  a  necklace  that  I  wore; 

A  mother's  gift,  no  doubt,  for  me  to  wear, 
Whatever  thing  might  hap  on  sea  or  shore— 
A  gift  of  pearls  a  princess  might  adore. 

Well,  when  to  womanhood  I  was  most  grown, 

I  changed  the  pearls,  and  made  the  belt  you  hold, 

In  precious  filigree  it  all  was  sown, 

In  wire  of  silver  or  with  threads  of  gold, 

And  patterned  bravely  from  fair  things  of  old. 

And  so  one  night  to  a  great  dance  I  went, 

And  wore  my  belt,  'twas  such  a  dear  delight— 

And  many  eyes  on  it,  or  me,  were  bent, 
In  truth,  I  think  it  was  a  pretty  sight- 
But  going  home,  I  lost  it  in  the  night." 


150         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Now  they  walked  on,  and  looked  down  at  the  sea, 
And  much  she  told  him  of  the  days  agone, 

And  how  she  grew  a  pretty  girl  to  be, 
In  the  old  mission  standing  there  so  lone, 
And  all  the  strangeness  that  her  life  had  known. 

"I  had  a  voice,  and  was  made  chorister, 
To  sing  in  yonder  dear  San  Luis  Rey, 

With  other  girls  who  at  the  mission  were; 
And  I  was  best,  I  heard  the  friars  say, 
And  mine  the  prize  on  many  a  festal  day." 

She  told  him  how  when  travelers  came  along, 
And  all  good  things  the  friars  made  them  share 

The  mission's  cheer — the  wine,  the  tale,  the  song; 
It  was  her  task  to  help  to  serve  them  there 
In  the  plain  garb  that  he  had  seen  her  wear. 

And  now  to  him  she  seemed  more  beautiful 
The  more  she  told  of  other  days  than  this, 

And  yet  too  oft  a  little  cloudlet  stole 
Across  a  brow  he  had  not  dared  to  kiss- 
Across  a  face  that  looking  at  was  bliss. 

That  she  loved  much  her  eyes  cared  not  to  hide — 
On  red'ning  cheeks  one  read  the  story  well  I 

Yet,  like  a  phantom  trav'ling  at  her  side, 

There  seemed  a  secret  that  she  feared  to  tell — 
Some  threat'ning  cloud  that  on  her  spirits  fell. 

Now  many  days,  and  months,  almost,  were  by, 
"Would  she  not  speak?"  Luigi  longing  cried, 

"What  stood  between  them?  were  it  mountain  high, 
There  is  no  height  that  love  can  quite  divide, 
No  land,  no  sea,  but  love  has  oft  defied." 


152         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRAXO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"Should  she  not  break  the  built-up  bars  of  earth, 
Tear  down  whatever  thing  might  stand  between 

Her  love  and  his ;  was  not  love  greater  worth 
Than  any  jewel  that  God's  world  had  seen, 
Than  anything  that  ever  yet  had  been?" 

Nor  yes  nor  nay  had  she  once  clearly  said,— 
"Would  she  not  speak  and  end  the  bitter  woe, 

Again  the  roses  had  grown  white  and  red, 
Again  the  poppies  had  begun  to  blow, 
Would  she  not  answer,  whether  yes  or  no?" 

Thus  he  who  once  had  only  scorned  at  love, 
Now  shook  in  passion's  wild  and  burning  way, 

Called  on  the  gods  in  the  sweet  heavens  above 
To  give  him  that  for  which  his  soul  did  pray 
Or  leave  him  lifeless  ere  another  day. 

Then  on  a  day  when  bees  were  murmuring, 

And  yellow  poppies  like  a  sea  of  gold 
The  dear  glad  earth  seemed  almost  covering 

They  stood  again  by  the  blue  sea  that  rolled, 

Listening  as  ever  to  the  tale  he  told. 

She  listened  also,  pleading  more  delay; 
"A  little  while,  perhaps  tomorrow's  dawn 

Would  give  her  heart  for  that  which  she  might  say;" 
To  him  it  seemed  as  if  all  hope  were  gone, 
Some  sad'ning  fate  to  him  were  coming  on. 

That  night  the  moon  shone  glad  and  gloriously 
On  palm  and  rose  and  many  an  olive  grove, 

And  to  the  chamber  where  Luigi  lay, 
With  open  windows  and  the  stars  above, 
Sleepless  and  dying  with  the  pangs  of  love. 


Ix  ARCADIA  153 

Scarce  had  the  moon  in  the  horizon  set, 

Scarce  had  the  stars  slipped  downward  toward  the 
day, 

Before  through  fields  that  still  were  dewy  wet, 
Luigi  hastened  on  the  well  known  way, 
To  where  his  heart  forever  bounden  lay. 

The  joyous  blossoms  on  the  happy  ground 
In  purpling  carpets  by  the  million  fell, 

In  every  wood  there  was  the  happy  sound 
Of  singing  birds  too  sweet  for  words  to  tell, 
Luigi  heard,  and  felt  the  wondrous  spell. 

Up  the  fair  stream  his  footsteps  hurried  on, 
The  dear  wild  rose  was  blooming  everywhere, 

It  was  the  melting  of  the  night  to  dawn- 
Such  dawns  as  only  can  be  witnessed  there— 
The  mission  bells  were  calling  now  to  prayer. 

Close  by  the  sea  there  was  their  trysting  place, 
Not  distant  far  was  dear  San  Luis  Rey, 

Should  they  meet  now,  the  last  time,  face  to  face, 
Or  would  it  be  the  birthtime  of  a  day 
When  bells  should  ring  for  happiness  alway? 

Already  now  he  heard  her  footsteps  near, 

And  hands  were  clasped  as  yesterday  they  were, 

Yet  seeing  her  he  almost  seemed  to  fear, 
And  scarcely  knew  if  his  own  heart  did  stir, 
So  pale  she  was  when  he  but  looked  at  her. 

At  last  she  spoke:   "Luigi,  all  is  gone — 

My  great  sad  fear  like  a  black  storm  did  fall, 

Last  night  when  vespers  had  but  just  begun 
I  prayed  the  friar  he  should  tell  me  all— 
My  life,  my  birth,  whatever  might  befall. 


154         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Well,  of  that  ship,  and  many  things  he  spoke; 
As  to  my  mother;  doubt  there  could  not  be— 

How  like  a  waif  from  the  wild  waves  that  broke 
On  yonder  strand  some  brave  men  rescued  me, 
An  Indian's  child,"  he  said,  "saved  from  the  sea." 

"I  had  not  dared  at  any  time  to  tell, 

What  fears  I  had  of  something  threatening  so; 

Like  a  huge  rock  that  shook,  and  never  fell, 
Till  yester  night,  then  I  resolved  to  go 
And  know  the  truth  I  was  afraid  to  know. 

Oft  at  the  mission  gossipings  I'd  heard 
Among  the  girls,  who  on  such  gossip  fed— 

"She's  no  Castillian" — much  my  soul  was  stirred, 
Knowing  that  thus  I  should  not  ever  wed; 
And  now,  at  last,  I  know  the  truth,"  she  said. 

An  olive  tint  that  moment  seemed  to  trace 

The  Indian's  blood  across  her  cheek  and  brow — 

Had  death  itself  looked  in  Luigi's  face 
He  had  not  had  a  face  so  calm  as  now; 
To  worse  than  death  the  heart  must  often  bow. 

"Let  it  be  so," — he  answered,  holding  fast 

The  hand  that  trembled  as  he  spoke  the  word, 

"Whatever  blood,  or  race,  or  speech,  thou  hast, 
Thou  art  still  mine — the  words  are  yet  unheard 
To  measure  love  or  hearts  so  deeply  stirred." 

She  spoke  again:   "Oh,  it  must  be  farewell, 
This  very  day  the  friar  bade  prepare; 

A  passing  ship  whose  name  I  cannot  tell, 
Goes  to  the  South.     I  must  go  with  it  there, 
Nor  see  thee  more  nor  here,  nor  anywhere. 


IN  ARCADIA  155 

"Dear  art  thou,  yes,  Oh,  doubly  dear,  and  yet, 
All  I  could  give  thou  wouldst  not  hold  it  fast, 

Better  to  live  not  knowing  love's  great  debt, 

Just  dreaming  things  that  once  were  dear  and  past, 
Than  live  regretting  the  great  thing  at  last. 

"That  which  I  am  thou  wouldst  not  want  alway, 
Disdain  of  friends  would  be  too  much  for  thee; 

Too  strong  my  love  that  ever  I  should  say 
Thy  days  should  go  in  weariness  for  me— 
Better,  my  face  thou  never  more  shalt  see. 

"Some  have  done  things  to  save  another's  life, 
I  will  do  more,  refusing  thee,  nor  wed— 

The  scorn  thou'dst  have,  were  I  to  be  thy  wife — 
The  hard  disgrace,  were  curses  on  thy  head; 
Go  and  forget,  ere  thou  art  worse  than  dead." 

"Not  so,  dear  one,  on  some  lone  island  far, 
If  need  be,  just  we  two  would  live  alone— 

Where  slandering  tongues  of  gossips  never  are, 
And  only  love  on  the  sweet  winds  is  blown, 
And  words  of  love  the  only  language  known." 

"Luigi,  think — there  is  not  in  the  world 

A  spot  so  far  where  scandal  could  not  go- 
Embittered  words  would  still  at  thee  be  hurled, 
And  thou  be  friendless  still ;  lost  dear  one,  no ; 
What  fate  has  willed,  let  us  but  leave  it  so." 

Even  as  she  spoke,  on  the  high  hills  was  seen 
A  warning  flag,  that  answered  back  to  one 

There  on  the  mission  in  the  valley  green— 

A  ship  was  sighted  through  the  glistening  sun, 
And  quick  the  news  to  every  hillside  run. 


156         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRAXO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

She  looked  and  saw  the  nearing  whitening  sails, 
"No  pirate,  that,  it  is  the  ship  that  nears 

For  my  sad  fate — and  now  the  signal  hails, 
And  to  the  land  the  sailors'  long  boat  steers, 
And  all  is  lost — save  time  and  grief  and  tears." 

That  moment,  too,  from  yon  Presidio, 
Soldiers  have  come  to  hasten  her  away; 

At  whose  command  they  little  care  to  know, 
No  farewell  words,  her  duty  to  obey, 
Each  looked  at  each  as  in  cold  death's  dismay. 

Speechless  the  two  a  dreadful  moment  stood, 
Each  thinking  how  below  that  mighty  wall, 

In  the  deep  sea,  so  easily  they  could 

Find  death  and  peace:  they  heard  the  sea  waves  call 
In  pitying  moans — "the  sea  can  end  it  all." 

T&  %  $£  %  ~%: 

That  night  alone  in  her  poor  lonesome  room, 
Gathering  the  little  that  was  hers  to  take, 

Sleepless  in  woe  she  waited  there  her  doom- 
Waited  the  morn  that  should  in  sadness  break; 
The  morn  that  once  was  gladness  for  her  sake. 

But  on  that  day  around  the  mission  went 
A  story,  strange  as  any  ever  known— 

"That  ship,"  they  said,  "to  a  near  isle  was  sent 
And  found  a  woman  stranded  there  alone, 
In  a  sea-wreck  she  had  been  thither  blown. 

"Eighteen  long  years  no  human  face  she'd  seen; 
Her  sole  companions,  birds  and  the  wild  things 

That  came  to  think  her  as  some  forest  queen ; 

They  brought  her  food,  just  as  the  mother  brings 
To  its  young  wildlings  while  it  coos  and  sings. 


IN  ARCADIA  157 

She  learned  their  voices,  spoke  with  every  one 

As  if  they  had  been  people  of  her  own- 
Companioned  them  until  they  each  had  grown 
To  her  like  children  that  she  long  had  known; 
So  passed  the  seasons  with  her  there  alone. 

It  was  but  yesterday  the  ship  came  here 

That  rescued  her,  and  brought  her  to  our  shore; 

And  scarce  her  feet  on  the  sweet  land  was  near 
Till  one  she  saw  who  on  her  slim  waist  wore 
The  two  black  pearls  that  had  been  hers  before. 

Leaping  on  land  she  caught  in  wild  embrace 

The  form  of  one  whose  name  she  did  not  know- 
But  one  near  look  at  her  sweet  eyes  and  face — 
And  hearing  tones  that  were  so  dear  and  low, 
She  knew  her  child  of  that  strange  long  ago. 

And  stranger  yet  and  almost  marvelous, 

The  child  she  lost  in  that  great  wreck  of  old, 

Was  our  Laurita,  living  here  with  us;" 
So  said  the  gossips,  as  new  tales  they  told, 
Of  that  lost  belt  of  filigree  and  gold. 

For  so  it  happened  when  her  feet  were  set 

Close  to  the  ship,  where  she  should  sail  in  scorn, 

Right  at  its  side  mysteriously,  she  met 

Her  who  could  say  she  was  Castillian  born, 
And  not  an  Indian,  of  a  race  forlorn. 

A  little  time  and  birds  are  caroling 

On  El  Camino  downwards  to  the  bay, 
And  cavaliers  touch  their  guitars  and  sing. 

And  flowers  are  strewn  along  the  happy  way, 

For  see,  it  is  Luigi's  wedding  day. 


158 


THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


And  at  the  mission  of  San  Luis  Rey 

There  was  rejoicing,  and  the  bells  were  rung, 

And  all  went  happy,  and  the  legends  say, 
For  many  years,  in  the  Castillian  tongue, 
One  heard  the  story  of  Luigi  sung. 

And  true  it  is,  the  happy  couple  went 

In  loving  journeyings  up  and  down  the  land, 

And  every  sight  some  newer  joyance  lent, 
Nor  was  forgot,  as  they  went  hand  in  hand, 
The  day  he  found  the  bright  belt  on  the  sand. 


THE  ROSE  OF  MONTEREY 


The  Rose  of  Monterey 

It  was  in  a  golden  summer, 

Such  as  nowhere  else  is  seen, 
And  the  sea  was  all  in  sapphire, 

And  the  hills  ashore  were  green, 
When  our  little  ship  came  sailing    . 

Round  Point  Pinos  on  the  bay, 
And  we  saw  the  low  white  houses 

And  the  streets  of  Monterey. 

In  a  little  while  the  vessel, 

Like  a  swan  just  gone  to  rest, 
Seemed  asleep  inside  the  harbor, 

With  the  blue  sea  at  its  breast. 
And  the  sailors  all  went  shorewards, 

For  they  each  had  longed  to  know 
Of  a  rose  tree  they  had  read  of 

In  the  legends  long  ago. 

Of  a  red  rose  they  had  heard  of, 

And  a  love  that  was  supreme, 
Of  a  dark-eyed  senorita, 

Fair  as  any  poet's  dream. 
Oh,  in  all  the  coast  land  nowhere 

Was  there  one  so  fair  to  see 
As  sweet  Ellenore  the  beauteous 

Of  the  rose  of  Ophir  tree. 

'Twas  a  story  all  pathetic 

As  was  any  tale  of  old, 
And  the  legend  here  is  written 

As  the  sailors  heard  it  told; 

(EDITOR'S  NOTE — Among  the  sights  shown  visitors  at  Monterey  is  a  wonderful 
rose  of  Ophir  tree  said  to  have  been  planted  as  a  love  pledge  by  General  Shermai> 
then  a  lieutenant  at  the  Presidio,  and  a  beautiful  Spanish  girl  in  1849.) 


162         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

As  they  tell  it  still  to  strangers— 
When  sojourning  in  the  town,— 

As  the  old-time  gossips  tell  it, 
So  it  here  is  written  down. 

They  were  joyous  days  they  tell  of 

By  yon  wondrous  sunlit  strand, 
In  the  Spanish  days  they  tell  of, 

In  the  half  enchanted  land. 
Music,  dancing;  dancing,  music, 

Tambourine,  and  Castanet, 
Rout  and  ball,  and  racing  horses; 

Every  soul  on  joyance  set. 

It  was  all  enchanting  beauty 

Where  the  little  city  lay, 
With  its  arms  in  half  a  circle 

'Round  the  heavenly  little  bay; 
And  the  low  adobe  houses, 

Wreathed  in  roses  white  and  red, 
Seemed  as  ships  out  in  the  desert, 

With  the  blue  skies  overhead. 

All  their  valleys  thrilled  with  color, 

And  the  mountain  paths  were  red 
With  the  manzanita  berries, 

And  the  strange  vines  overhead. 
It  was  color,  color,  color, 

Only  color  everywhere, 
From  the  far-off  purple  mountains 

To  the  sapphire-colored  air. 

Once  it  was  the  town  lay  sleeping 
In  its  rose-embowered  bed, 

Till  one  morn  they  heard  strange  bugles 
And  a  stranger's  marching  tread— 


THE  ROSE  OF  MONTEREY  163 

Heard  the  music  of  strange  bugles 
Up  and  down  the  pretty  street- 
Heard  the  wild  notes  all  re-echoed 
That  the  stranger  drummers  beat. 

From  the  old  Presidio  yonder, 

Looking  westward  from  the  hill, 
Fly  the  Spanish  flags  no  longer, 

And  the  Spanish  drums  are  still; 
For  one  day  like  white  birds  sailing 

Came  strange  ships  across  the  bay, 
And  they  raised  a  stranger's  banner 

On  the  forts  of  Monterey. 

There  they  kept  them,  ever  flying 

From  the  high  hill  looking  down, 
But  the  soldiers  all  commingled 

With  the  people  in  the  town. 
Went  to  balls,  and  routs,  and  parties, 

Not  as  friends,  nor  yet  as  foes, 
Shared  the  wild  day's  joy  of  hunting, 

Shared  the  dances  at  its  close. 

Once  amid  the  soldiers  guarding 

In  the  old  Presidio, 
Stood  a  youth,  all  tall  and  slender, 

And  with  eyes  like  fire  aglow; 
It  was  Adrian,  Gun-Lieutenant 

At  the  old  Presidio, 
And  there  was  no  other  like  him, 

From  the  highest  to  the  low. 

Soft  of  speech  as  any  woman, 

He  the  youngest  of  them  all, 
Yet  no  trooper  there  could  throw  him 

Wrestling  at  the  carnival. 


164         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Naught  he  loves  save  hounds  and  horses, 
Lonesome  woods  and  chasing  deer, 

Yet  not  Robin  Hood  with  ladies 
Ever  was  so  cavalier. 

On  a  time  as  May  drew  nearer, 

May,  the  month  of  heart's  desire, 
Rode  the  youth  to  hills  and  forest, 

Past  the  chaparral  and  briar, 
Past  the  red  woods  tall  and  lonely, 

Past  the  liveoaks  darkling  green, 
Till  he  saw  an  old-time  ruin 

That  for  years  had  roofless  been. 

It  was  Carmel,  lovely  Carmel, 

Serra's  home  in  days  gone  by— 
Now  the  gray  owl  made  its  nest  there, 

On  its  walls  the  lizards  lie. 
Roofless  now  and  fall'n  asunder, 

Yonder  tower  alone  can  tell 
How  the  old-time  friars  listened 

To  the  calls  of  yonder  bell. 

Still,  at  times  they  say  it  rings  there, 

Moonlight  nights  the  most  of  all; 
When  a  child  has  died  they  say  it 

Rings  from  yonder  ruined  wall. 
And  the  land  folks  think  that  angels 

Passing  ring  the  mission  bell, 
And  they  cross  themselves  and  whisper 

When  they  feel  the  midnight  spell. 

There  below  the  Carmel  river, 
Hurrying  downward  to  the  bay, 

Through  its  woods  the  soldier  wanders, 
Knowing  scarce  the  lonesome  way, 


166         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Till  at  once  he  hears  strange  voices 

Just  beyond  him  in  the  glen- 
Laughing  tones  of  happy  women, 
Laughing  shouts  of  merry  men. 

Drawing  nearer,  lo!  a  valley, 

Long  and  level,  stretches  on, 
Hemmed  with  ivied  oak  and  holly; 

There  upon  its  grassy  lawn 
Sees  he  men  and  maids  and  horses, 

For  the  morning  sport  will  be 
Seeing  what  horse  runs  the  swiftest 

To  yon  distant  live-oak  tree. 

Not  for  gain  the  sport,  this  morning — 

Just  this  flower  wreath  for  him 
Who  shall  hang  his  hat  first  yonder 

On  the  liveoak's  nearest  limb; 
Then  a  fair  hand  holds  the  wreath  up 

In  a  gay  and  laughing  mood, 
And  a  pair  of  black  eyes  pierced  him 

Like  an  arrow,  where  he  stood. 

It  is  Ellenore,  the  fair  one, 

That  his  eyes  have  quickly  seen; 
In  one  moment  she  has  snared  him 

Like  a  wild  bird  on  the  green; 
Never  any  arrow  swifter, 

Never  any  Cupid's  dart 
Found  its  way  straight  to  a  bosom 

Than  her  eyes  to  Adrian's  heart. 

Scarcely  now  he  could  look  from  her, 
Seems  so  fair  she  is,  and  all, 

Seems  himself  enchained  that  moment, 
Seems  his  very  soul  in  thrall. 


THE  ROSE  OF  MONTEREY  167 

Once  she  touched  his  hand  with  her  hand, 

All  so  white  and  fair  and  slim, 
And  the  thrill  that  comes  but  one  time 

In  that  moment  came  to  him. 

Scarce  he  saw  the  flying  horses, 

Scarcely  heard  the  signal — "start," 
For  still  faster  than  the  hoof-beats 

Were  the  quick  beats  of  his  heart. 
Now  all  soon  the  sport  is  ended, 

Soon  the  wreath  of  flowers  is  won, 
And  in  merry  groups  or  single 

They  are  parting  every  one. 

Soon  in  merry  mood  they're  riding 

On  the  road  to  Monterey, 
And  'tis  Adrian  who  rides  by  her, 

And  they're  laughing  all  the  way; 
But  another  rides  behind  them, 

With  a  cloud-like  look  and  frown — 
Tis  the  son  of  the  Alcalde, 

Now  the  ruler  of  the  town. 

/ 

Once  a  suitor,  and  rejected, 

Like  a  cloud  he  follows  now — 
Seeing  that  she  loves  another 

He  has  vowed  a  solemn  vow. 
Some  day,  somewhere,  she  shall  know  it, 

He  will  pay  her  cold  disdain- 
Some  time,  though  it  be  for  distant, 

She  shall  think  of  all  again. 

So  they  rode  on  through  the  forest, 

To  the  jingling  of  their  bells, 
To  the  bells  upon  their  bridles 

Making  music  in  the  dells, 


168         THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Till  it  seemed  a  new  Diana, 
She  the  goddess  of  the  chase, 

With  her  merry  ones  around  her 
Were  enchanting  all  the  place. 

Never  once  was  love-word  spoken; 

But  in  Adrian's  burning  eyes 
There  was  that  that  told  when  near  her 

He  was  close  to  Paradise. 
Yet  she  gave  no  sign  nor  token — 

Lest  a  secret  should  be  known— 
Save  her  dark  eyes'  tender  glances 

Told  his  feelings  were  her  own. 

So  they  rode  on  to  the  city, 

So  they  rode  on  to  the  bay, 
And  they  often  walked  together 

At  the  closing  of  the  day. 
But  the  strange  flag  floating  yonder 

Was  forever  in  her  mind; 
Though  her  eyes  were  ever  tender, 

And  her  words  were  ever  kind. 

Many  days  passed,  and  the  longing 

For  a  promise  ever  grew, 
For  the  joy  of  love's  returning 

Was  a  joy  he  never  knew. 
Though  they  walked  alone  together 

In  the  moonlight  by  the  bay, 
Yet  in  vain  he  waited,  listened, 

For  the  words  she  did  not  say. 

"You  must  speak,  dear  Ellenore, 
Waiting's  long  and  hard  to  bear." 

But  she  pointed  to  the  strang  flag 
That  was  floating  over  there. 


170        THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"That  alone  is  love's  undoing. 

Could  you  leave  it  all  for  me? 
Put  our  old  flag  where  it  once  was, 

Proudly  looking  on  the  sea?" 

"Love  is  strong,"  he  answered,  "stronger 

Most  than  anything;  but  know 
'Twere  not  so  if  with  dishonor 

Love  should  ever  think  to  go." 
For  a  little  while  she  waited, 

And  again  their  eyes  have  met, 
And  she  loved  him  for  that  saying 

More  than  she  had  loved  him  yet. 

For  she  kaew  who  loved  bright  honor 

To  her  also  would  be  true; 
And  they  pledged  there  in  the  moonlight 

To  each  other  to  be  true. 
Many  days  were  theirs  together, 

Wand'ring  up  and  down  the  wold, 
And  she  learned  to  love  the  new  flag 

As  she  once  had  loved  the  old. 

Wand'ring  in  the  sunny  weather, 

Wand'ring  in  the  forest  green, 
With  the  blue  bells  and  the  heather, 

Every  morning  they  were  seen. 
Every  joy  seemed  theirs  in  sharing— 

As  they  laughed  along  the  way, 
Till  a  cloud  came  on  their  spirits 

That  had  always  been  so  gay. 

Till  a  cloud  on  their  horizon 

Bid  the  lovers  they  must  part; 
There  were  "orders"  now,  up  yonder, 
And  tomorrow  he  must  start. 


THE  ROSE  OF  MONTEREY  171 

There  were  oceans  to  divide  them, 
There  were  years  to  come  and  go 

Ere  again  they'd  walk  together 
With  the  blue  sea  down  below. 

They  must  part,  but  firm  the  promise 

Made  that  afternoon  with  tears; 
Love  should  bind  their  hearts  together 

Through  the  coming  of  the  years; 
And  beside  the  shining  waters 

Of  the  little  sun-lit  bay, 
They  would  plant  a  rose  as  promise 

Of  a  happy  wedding  day. 

Plant  a  rose  of  gold  of  Ophir; 

When  it  blossomed  it  should  be 
Pledge  that  he  was  thinking  of  her, 

Though  he  were  beypnd  the  sea. 
Every  year  that  it  should  blossom 

It  should  be  a  sign  to  say 
He  was  thinking  only  of  her 

There  beside  the  happy  bay. 

Then  the  ship  sailed  down  the  harbor, 

As  they  waved  a  long  farewell ; 
Long  she  gazed  upon  the  waters 

As  the  white  waves  rose  and  fell, 
Till  the  long  low  distance  buried 

Ship  and  sail  from  out  her  sight, 
Till  the  sun  sank  in  the  ocean 

And  the  stars  shone  in  the  night. 

And  the  rose  tree  grew  and  blossomed, 

Blossomed  fair  for  many  a  day; 
There  was  not  another  like  it 
In  the  town  beside  the  bay. 


172        THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Yet  it  brought  no  sign  or  message 
From  the  one  beyond  the  sea — 

"You  are  fooled,"  the  people  told  her, 
"Sitting  by  your  Ophir  tree." 

Little  harked  she  to  their  saying, 

Listened  but  to  that  within. 
"He  will  come — has  he  not  promised? 

See  the  roses  now  begin." 
And  in  sooth  the  rose  tree  flourished, 

Spread  as  never  rose  before, 
Cast  its  fragrance  ever  dearer, 

Covered  gate  and  cottage  door. 

Still  no  message — years  were  passing, 

Still  her  faith  was  as  before ; 
Ever,  ever,  letters  sending, 

Still  no  answer  at  her  door. 
Now  at  last  she  waited,  only; 

Still  the  rose  its  fragrance  sent; 
Oh,  the  days  they  moved  so  slowly, 

And  the  ships  they  came  and  went. 

He,  too,  there  beyond  the  ocean, 

Never  tidings  has  of  her, 
Never  word  of  his  is  answered, 

And  he  thought  of  days  that  were; 
Thought  of  that  time  in  the  forest, 

Of  the  ride  down  to  the  bay, 
Saw  that  churl  again  that  followed 

Cloud-like,  frowning  all  the  way. 

"She  is  false,  like  other  women; 

Had  it  not  been  so  from  old?" 
And  he  thought  of  that  dark  shadow 

That  pursued  them  in  the  wold. 


THE  ROSE  OF  MONTEREY  173 

"He  it  is,  her  old-time  lover, 
Welcomed  back  in  place  of  me." 

Yet  he  could  not  cease  to  love  her 
Yonder  by  the  rosebush  tree. 

Hopeless  now  he  sought  adventure, 

Flung  him  to  the  battle's  strife; 
She  was  lost,  what  was  there  left  him, 

What  to  him  were  death  or  life? 
Bravest  of  the  brave,  behold  him— 

Leading  where  his  comrades  fall, 
Look,  his  sword  unsheathed,  is  foremost 

He  is  leader  of  them  all. 

Years  have  passed  and  all  is  changing; 

He's  a  nation's  idol  now, 
See,  he  passes  there  in  triumph, 

Wreaths  of  glory  on  his  brow. 
Once  he  rides  through  town  and  city, 

Crosses  mountains,  hills  and  plain, 
And  almost  before  he  knows  it 

Rides  in  Monterey  again. 

They  will  show  him  all  the  city, 

The  Presidio  by  the  bay, 
Where  as  but  a  young  lieutenant 

He  had  been  for  many  a  day ; 
Show  him  Carmel,  still  a  ruin, 

Where  the  friars  used  to  be, 
And  they  tell  him  of  a  rosebush 

That  is  wonderful  to  see. 

Half-forgetting,  still  he'd  see  it, 

And  he  wandered  there  alone- 
Saw  a  rose  tree  in  the  blooming, 

Heard  a  once  familiar  tone; 


THE  ROSE  OF  MONTEREY  175 

It  was  Ellenore,  the  fair  one, 

Holding  roses  in  her  hand, 
With  a  tender  smile  she  gives  them 

To  the  greatest  in  the  land. 

Tells  him  they  were  from  the  rose  tree 
That  they  planted  long  ago, 

Tells  the  sad  tale  of  her  waiting 
Since  that  morning  long  ago; 

Of  the  strange,  mysterious  secret- 
Why  their  letters  came  nor  went; 

How  from  that  false  churl  she  knows  it — 
He  had  watched  when  they  were  sent. 

It  was  he,  that  one  rejected; 

Dark  revenge  had  led  him  on; 
Came  or  went  a  ship  with  letters, 

Quick  he  stole  them  every  one— 
In  the  old  Alcalde's  office, 

There  the  evil  thing  was  done! 
Thus  at  death  he  had  confessed  it, 

Feeling  his  revenge  was  won. 

All  was  clear,  the  strange  long  silence; 

Now  again  the  vow  is  said, 
For  the  mystery  is  broken, 

And  their  love  was  never  dead, 
So  again  the  fates  untangle 

All  the  threads  of  years  agone, 
And  again  they  walk  together 

When  the  moonlight's  coming  on. 

Still  the  ships  go  to  the  harbor, 

And  the  sailors  go  on  shore, 
And  they  see  the  wondrous  rose-tree 

Blooming  as  it  bloomed  before. 


176        THE  BELLS  OF  CAPISTRANO  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  they  hear  again  the  legend, 
Strolling  yonder  by  the  bay, 

Of  the  handsome  young  lieutenant 
And  the  Rose  of  Monterey. 


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